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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805468">Darling, in the End, We All Become What We Pretend to Be</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/palaces_out_of_paragraphs/pseuds/palaces_out_of_paragraphs'>palaces_out_of_paragraphs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love Confessions, Making Out, Marriage, Married Couple, Married Life, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, and what’s the point of writing fic if you can’t write idiots reaching peak levels of pining, let’s face it most of their scenes belong in a romcom anyway, this fic is a love letter to westallen and my favorite tropes, westallen - Freeform, westallen but make it romcom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:27:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>51,025</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805468</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/palaces_out_of_paragraphs/pseuds/palaces_out_of_paragraphs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Iris West asks for a favor, Barry Allen says yes. </p><p>It’s just one of those facts of life Barry knows, like the three laws of thermodynamics and Newton’s law of universal gravitation, and whatever Iris asks for, he’ll always say yes, because if she asked for the moon, he’d figure a way to pluck it down out of the midnight sky for her.</p><p>Barry just doesn’t expect Iris to say, “I need you to marry me.”</p><p>(She says it so very factually and casually too, like it’s not making his heart flip and his lungs feel like they’re on fire, like she’s just listing out her Jitters order. She’d like an extra large cronut and two tall Americanos, one in the form of liquid caffeine and one in the form of Barry Allen, please.)</p><p>He chokes on his drink, <i>“What?”</i></p><p>“I need you to marry me,” she repeats, making sure he’s heard her right. Which is probably a good thing, since <i>marry me</i> is always the subtext he hears whenever Iris opens her mouth anyway.</p><p>(A <i>Let’s get married for the financial aid and free housing, what could possibly go wrong with this flawless plan?</i> college au.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barry Allen &amp; Iris West, Barry Allen/Iris West</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>543</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I Take You to Be My Lawfully Wedded Partner...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barry Allen loves Iris West.</p><p>This is just a fact Barry knows, like Newton’s law of universal gravitation or Asimov’s rules of robotics.</p><p>The sky is blue and there’s three laws of thermodynamics and he loves Iris West.</p><p>And he’s known it for so long it’s like it’s woven into his very being, like his love is so deeply ingrained in him it’s written into his bones.</p><p>So when Iris meets him in Jitters one day, and asks if she can ask him for a favor, he doesn’t tell her no.</p><p>“You know you can ask me anything,” he says.</p><p>He just doesn’t expect Iris to look at him and go, “I need you to marry me.”</p><p>He chokes on his drink, “<i>What</i>?”</p><p>(She says it so very factually and casually too, like it’s not making his heart flip and his lungs feel like they’re on fire, like she’s just listing out her Jitters order. She’d like an extra large cronut and two tall Americanos, one in the form of liquid caffeine and one in the form of Barry Allen, please.)</p><p>“I need you to marry me,” she repeats, making sure he’s heard her right.</p><p>(Which is probably a good thing, since <i>marry me</i> is always the subtext he hears whenever Iris opens her mouth anyway.)</p><p>“I can’t make the payments for both my dorm and my journalism degree,” Iris tells him, as if this is somehow a clear explanation. “I’m going to have to leave school if I can’t find the money, and I’ve come too far for that Barry, I can’t quit now.”</p><p>“What? No,” he blinks in surprise, shakes his head, tries to figure out how her asking him to marry her factors in. “No of course not, we can’t let that happen.”</p><p>(Because here’s another fact Barry knows: Iris has to become a journalist.</p><p>She writes like she was born for it.)</p><p>“Well, Central City University said they couldn’t give me any more financial aid, but I spent all night going over the fine print in the paperwork, and guess what, Barry?” Iris asks, leaning forward, eyes sparkling, like she’s just found out a secret she needs to share with him, as if they’re little kids in hijinks again. And Barry finds himself leaning forward toward her, just like he always does, like Iris has her own irresistible, gravitational pull and he can’t help but be drawn into her orbit.</p><p>“There’s a loophole in the federal student aid that says there’s available grants if I’m either at least twenty-five, married, or have a child,” Iris says, before pausing for a moment. “Asking you to marry me seems like a better choice than asking you to knock me up.”</p><p>And then Barry promptly chokes on his drink for the second time in under a minute. </p><p>And Iris tells him about FAFSA applications, how they’d <i>both</i> be able to get thousands of dollars in grants as long as they were legally married on paper, how they’d even be given their own apartment all to themselves on campus because of the married housing provision, and how she knows he’d like that since he’s always saying how much he hates his roommate Julian, anyway. How this is a way she can stay in school and he can get aid, and the two of them can graduate debt-free and then divorce, both their slates wiped clean.</p><p>But Barry can’t pay attention to any of the technicalities, because <i>Iris West just asked him to marry her</i>, and it’s simultaneously the best and worst moment of his life.</p><p>It’s complicated. He’s been in love with her as far back as he can remember, before he even knew what <i>love</i> meant. But he’s loved her in silence, because he wants to tell her, but telling her means he has to risk losing her, and he can’t do that. Not when she’s the best thing in his life.</p><p>(He’s lost enough. If he lost her too, it would break him like glass.)</p><p>And this, this is something more complex than string theory. Some kind of impossibility. Schrodinger’s marriage. Because him marrying her would mean both getting her and not. Having her while he can’t ever have her. Or vice versa. And the subsequent divorce would be like losing her when she hadn’t even been truly his in the first place.</p><p>Now would be the time to tell her, Barry thinks, tell Iris how he really feels before things get even more complicated and he can’t, because only a coward wouldn’t. </p><p>And he opens his mouth, and he says:</p><p>“Sure. I could use the money too.”</p><p>(He never said he <i>wasn’t</i> a coward.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris is standing in an office in a courthouse, right next to Barry and across from an ancient officiant who’s grey head is bent over his desk as his old, wrinkled hands shuffle through their paperwork they’ve brought him. And it’s then that it hits her:<p>She’s getting married.</p><p>
  <i>She’s actually getting married.</i>
</p><p>It seems irrational, that after all the forms she’s already filled out and the license she’s already gotten and the excited email she’d sent to her journalism professor saying she wouldn’t have to drop out of school after all, that it’s only hitting her now. But the thing is, it had all been a whirlwind and now it’s all wound down to this, and the idea finally has time resonate in the quiet of this room.</p><p>Still, while the notion takes some getting used to, it doesn’t make her nervous, not really, because this is <i>Barry</i> she’s getting married to, her best friend in the universe, and if there’s one thing — just <i>one</i> thing — Iris knows, it’s that as long as they’re in it together, everything will work out okay.</p><p>(This is a belief she’s had since childhood, a fact she’s held onto at every low point in her life. The sun will always come up and wounds heal with time and as long as Barry’s by her side, she’ll be fine.)</p><p>The officiant is still busy, so Iris sneaks a glance at Barry, who’s shifting on his feet, trying to beat a wave of restless energy, like him staying in place is like trying to pin down bolts of lightning.</p><p>“You doing okay, Bear?” she asks, her voice soft, so no one but him hears.</p><p>Barry turns to look down at her, his eyes all big and wide, and then he blinks his ridiculously long lashes at her like he’s some sort of baby deer.</p><p>(A <i>cartoon</i> baby deer, Iris thinks absently. Because eyelashes like his that were all precious and exquisitely delicate and stupidly long looked like they were carefully drawn out by an artist specifically for Bambi and not for any one human boy.)</p><p>“You’re not nervous, are you?” Iris asks in a quiet whisper, though she probably could’ve said it louder and the kind, old officiant wouldn’t have heard her.</p><p>“No,” Barry says, which is a lie, but she lets him have it, because it’s cute when he doesn’t realize how his nervous fidgeting is the biggest tell there is. “I mean, it’s not like it’s anything we haven’t done before.”</p><p>Iris stares at him, raises an eyebrow.</p><p>He blushes.</p><p>“We got married in front of a dinosaur,” he reminds her.</p><p>“I think this is a bit more legally binding than that, Bear.”</p><p>“I think you’re underestimating the legislative authority that stuffed T-Rex had, Iris.”</p><p>Iris laughs quietly, smiling fondly at the memory of their makeshift, make-believe wedding. </p><p>(She’d asked him to marry her some eleven-odd years ago just as casually as she had last week. And he’d said yes to her, just as quickly and trustingly back then as he had this second time around.</p><p>She has no idea where she’d be without Barry Allen in her life.</p><p>She doesn’t ever want to find out.)</p><p>“You’re the short one this time around,” he points out, interrupting her musings.</p><p>Iris huffs in amusement, eyes on the officiant as he starts reciting something from a book, and she thinks it might be the wedding speech, but she isn’t really paying attention because she can’t believe Barry’s bringing this up <i>now.</i></p><p>“I liked being the tall one before you hit your growth spurt,” she whispers back, out of the side of her mouth.</p><p>“And now I’m taller by eight inches,” he adds in a quiet sing-song, looking pleased with himself.</p><p>“Really, Barry?”</p><p>“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, glancing at the doddering old officiant who still hasn’t noticed them not paying attention yet, “we’re still getting married in front of a dinosaur.”</p><p>Iris bites her bottom lip, teeth sinking into it to keep a laugh from spilling out, and she nudges Barry’s side with her elbow in retaliation. And he nudges her back, only much gentler, and then her gaze catches his, and he beams down at her, his eyes lit up with laughter.</p><p>And it all feels easy and sweet and irreverent, like they’re both kids in cahoots again, telling jokes and trading whispered secrets between them instead of wedding vows.</p><p>But then the officiant says: “You may now kiss the bride.”</p><p>And Iris and Barry both freeze. They both knew this was coming, somewhere in the backs of their minds, but the two of them had danced around the subject, talking about subsidies and legalities instead.</p><p>(But it’s just a kiss, she tells herself now. A quick kiss in a courtroom. Not like she’s making out with him in front of the officiant. Seventh graders playing spin the bottle have done more.)</p><p>So Iris turns to face Barry, finds she’s staring him square in the chest even in her highest heels, her eyes on level with the stitched buttons that sit below the hollow of his throat.</p><p>And he is so <i>tall</i>, she realizes. So, so ridiculously tall, and when did that even happen?</p><p>(Well, actually, Iris can tell you the exact summer it happened, the exact time she realized she had to lean back to look up at him, that she’d be spending the rest of her life with a best friend who could easily lift her, pick her up off the ground and spin her. It’s just that she’s become so used to his height, she forgets to appreciate, sometimes, exactly how long and lean those limbs of his are.)</p><p>And when Iris looks up, she finds he’s staring down at her from under his feathery eyelashes, looking unsure.</p><p>(And she forgets her own anxiety instantly, wants to tell him it’s okay, not to be nervous. Because the thing is, this is just a kiss. They’ve spent years seeing each other at their most vulnerable and raw.</p><p>Barry Allen’s laid his head on her legs on the worst night of his life and sobbed his heart out, his tears staining her pajamas, soaking through at the knees. She’s sat heartbroken in his lap, encircled in the warm strength of his arms, hiding her face in the curve of his neck as he’s traced soothing patterns down her spine, telling her everything would be fine. They’ve both allowed each other to see all of the cracks in their armor, let the other hold them at their most beaten down and broken.</p><p>And what is a simple kiss compared to the intimacy of all that?)</p><p>So Iris reaches up, curls her hand over the curve of his shoulder for support, and then stands up on her tiptoes, and even then, Barry has to lean down for his mouth to meet hers.</p><p>And being this close to her best friend isn’t something new, but what <i>is</i> new is the feeling of his breath fanning out over her face and his mouth coming down over hers, and the way her bottom lip feels as his comes up beneath it, tentative and sweet.</p><p>Iris expects the kiss to be quick, and it would’ve been, but she’s arching back, trying to lean up in her stilettos and she tilts backwards unsteadily, her hand automatically rising in the air for balance as she tries to stay on her feet.</p><p>And Barry catches her — just like he always has, just like she knows he always will — reaching for her instinctively, his hand coming around to the small of her back. And Iris can feel every inch of his palm from where it’s pressed close against the paper-thin fabric of her pale dress and the way the length of his arm is half wrapped around her side, and it feels warm and safe and nice, so ridiculously nice. Which she should know, anyway, since they’ve been hugging for almost as long as they’ve both been alive, but this is something completely new.</p><p>And Iris’ hand that had come up in the air for balance automatically reaches up to rest against his face instead, her thumb running over the edge of his cheekbone as she pushes herself up even further on her tiptoes, his arm pinning her closer to him in the process. And they’re still in a courthouse, after all, so the kiss is nothing too much, but it’s somehow enough to steal her breath and make her head buzz.</p><p>And then they break away, and she sinks down on her heels, Barry’s hands protectively on her waist, gently keeping her steady as they guide her back down.</p><p>(She has no idea why, but Iris feels sort of breathless, sort of like she has butterflies.</p><p>A myriad of butterflies, with hundreds of thousands of tiny, gossamer wings all beating in time to her heart.)</p><p>And it’s ridiculous, for something as chaste as their kiss to make her feel something like this, all soft and starry-eyed and like she wants to keep smiling, like when she was a kid and went to the carnival and her cheeks hurt from smiling so much, but she just couldn’t stop no matter how much she tried because her happiness couldn’t help but spill over.</p><p>“See?” Iris whispers, as she leans over to officially sign the marriage documents. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”</p><p>“No,” Barry says. “Not bad at all.”</p><p>And she can’t help but notice that he sounds a bit breathless too.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>In less than twenty-four hours, Barry and Iris are husband and wife and they have their own apartment on campus, fully paid for by the grants. And the voice in the back of Barry’s head is reminding him that they have separate bedrooms, that Iris proposed to him over coffee only so she wouldn’t get kicked out of school, that their wedding was more for formality than anything else.<p>But the thing is, back when he was a kid, he’d never believed in wishes on stars or coins in a fountain, but he always knew that if the wishes really counted, he’d have wished for this, for her, for <i>them</i>, because being married to Iris is all he’s ever wanted. </p><p>And the voice in the back of his mind speaks <i>again</i>, telling him he’s well and truly gone and blown it this time, being the big, stupid idiot that he is. Because he can’t tell her that he’s always loved her <i>now</i>, not when he could’ve — <i>should’ve</i> — done it so many times before. And it wouldn’t be fair to tell her now either, not when they’re living together and she can’t leave because she needs to pretend to be in love with him. And now they’re all in one big mess, and one day he’ll wake up and realize just how much he wishes it were real.</p><p>He’s ignoring the voice for now.</p><p>Instead, he’s setting down the last of the moving boxes into their new apartment and marveling at the fact that he’s standing in a home that will belong to him and Iris alone.</p><p>(Also, while he’s sweaty and pretty sure his hair’s sticking up every which way, Iris still somehow looks beautiful, like she’s just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. </p><p>Then again, he can’t remember a time he <i>didn’t</i> think that she looked beautiful. He’s happily biased like that.)</p><p>Iris, meanwhile, is standing in their kitchen, surveying the empty shelves, oblivious to the ridiculous, lovesick monologue going on in his stupid head.</p><p>“Pizza?” she asks.</p><p>“Hawaiian?”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” she says. “Fruit does not belong on pizza, Bartholomew.”</p><p>“Technically, tomatoes are classified as a fruit.”</p><p>“You’re a nerd.”</p><p>“<i>You’re</i> the one who married me.”</p><p>And she sticks her tongue out at him, and he throws a piece of crumbled packing paper at her. But she has her head thrown back, is laughing too much to duck, and as it ends up it’s fine, because he’s laughing too hard to aim right, so instead, the crinkled paper ends up floating in the air in-between them and falling to the floor. </p><p>And since there’s no chairs, he ends up on the floor too, tired and exhausted and happy, his long limbs sprawled out, and he feels Iris come sink down next to him, settling down by his side, right by his ribs, tucking her legs beneath her as she settles in.</p><p>He hums in acknowledgment of her, shuts his eyes, thinks maybe he’ll just fall asleep here on the floor instead of finishing unpacking, and then:</p><p>“Hey, Bear?”</p><p>He opens one eye, sees Iris peering down at him.</p><p>“Thank you,” she says. “For marrying me.”</p><p>She’s leaning down over him so she can see his face, her long hair falling in front of her eyes, hanging in the space in-between them, and he resists the deep-seated urge to reach up and tuck a strand behind her ear.</p><p>He takes her hand instead, thumb falling over her wrist, right over her pulse point.</p><p>“My life is in your hands, Iris,” he says.</p><p>(And he hopes that one day she’ll know just how much he means it.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris is applying her eyeliner when she catches Barry walking by out of the corner of her eye. He’s absorbed in reading something off his phone and has half a bagel with cream cheese sticking out of his mouth and is wearing that old, ratty blue shirt of his she hates so much.<p>“No,” she says, very firmly.</p><p>Barry stops mid-stride, turns to her, and blinks his big, long-lashed eyes in confusion. </p><p>“Mmprph?” he asks, very eloquently, the bagel still stuck in his mouth, and he looks very much like a confused, gangly limbed, chestnut-haired puppy that’s somehow wandered into her apartment. </p><p>Still. Being that adorable’s not going to get him out of this one. </p><p>The rest of Barry’s bagel disappears into his mouth, and as he chews, Iris points her eyeliner pencil at him and says, “Take it off.”</p><p>He nearly chokes on his bagel, <i>“Excuse me?”</i></p><p>“Shirt off,” Iris orders, which does nothing to lessen the pink that’s creeping into his cheeks. “You should’ve thrown that shirt out years ago, Barry, it’s all patchy from too many washes. No husband of mine is going out looking like that.”</p><p>The sentiment leaves her mouth before her brain can register it, the word <i>husband</i> falling from her lips so casually like she’s said it a thousand times in reference to Barry before. And the action should feel new, but it feels old and familiar instead, like somehow her mind is unsurprised by this new definition. </p><p>Like somehow the progression only seems natural.</p><p>She thinks maybe Barry’s noticed this feeling too, because the tips of his ears are tinted pink, but he doesn’t look upset by her slip up, just surprised, and the blush that blossoms on his cheeks and down his neck seems more like the flush he got when he won their high school science fair that one time and not the embarrassed kind of flush he’d get when he accidentally bumped into something in public.</p><p>(The realization that she has kept careful track of all the different ways he blushes is both surprising and unsurprising to her. Because on one hand, he’s her best friend, why wouldn’t she know? And on the other hand, sometimes Iris is still shocked at the facts about him that she’s carefully collected and filed away like they’re something precious she needs to keep safe.)</p><p>And to distract from the awkwardness, Iris tells him, “Go put on your green shirt.”</p><p>She, very cleverly, doesn't say that she likes the green one because it brings out all the flecks of gold and emerald green in his eyes. So points for her. See? She doesn’t have to make everything awkward.</p><p>Barry rolls his eyes at her bossiness.</p><p>“<i>To honor and obey</i>,” he says, muttering the wedding vows beneath his breath.</p><p>Iris smirks, goes back to applying her eyeliner, but then she catches him out of the corner of her vision again and what’s supposed to be a smooth swoop across her lid turns into a messy, lightning bolt-like jag instead as she gets distracted.</p><p>Because Barry’s tugging at his shirt, before pulling it up and taking it off, and Iris is stuck staring at the pale freckles that wind their way all across his body, like someone’s scattered stars across his skin.</p><p>And she can’t help but track their path with her eyes: Down the curve of his neck and into the tender hollow of his throat, around the curl of his collarbones and out over his stomach and the planes of his chest.</p><p>(And when, exactly, did Barry Allen get abs? Because he has them. Freckle-dusted abs that make Iris feel an instinctual urge to trace their pattern with the pads of her fingers, like she’s playing connect-the-dots or drawing constellations out across his body.)</p><p>Barry, thankfully, doesn’t notice her staring, she doesn’t think, because he’s busy bunching his shirt up and heading to his room to rummage around for the green one she’s requested.</p><p>And Iris has just enough time to shake away thoughts of the star-like freckles hidden on his skin, when he comes back out wearing the deep green shirt.</p><p>He spins in place in front of her so she can inspect him, and when he comes to a stop, he’s wearing that smile she knows so well, the one that’s laughing at her, but is also so sweet and dorky and like he hopelessly does want her approval no matter how much he teases her.</p><p>“Better?” he asks.</p><p>Iris’ eyes catch something in his face, and she reaches up, runs her thumb over the corner of his mouth and halfway down the full curve of his bottom lip, wiping some stray cream cheese away.</p><p>The action is commonplace for them. Comfortable. Neither have ever really stopped to notice how intimate the action is, because their brains have always simply filed it away under <i>normal.</i></p><p>One day, they’re going to look back at this and think that they were such idiots.</p><p>But, for now, Iris brings her hand down and says: </p><p>“You’re perfect.”</p><p>And the beam he sends her is brighter than the sun.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry and Iris are at the library, Iris picking up some books and Barry flipping through a science magazine as he waits for her, and he’s about to turn the page when he hears her tell the librarian:<p>“The books are reserved under Iris, Iris West-Allen.”</p><p>And it’s the first time Barry’s ever heard her introduce herself under his name, under her new name, under <i>their</i> name, and he pauses, the page unturned, his pulse pinging like crazy.</p><p>(And hearing her say the combination of their name is like suddenly hearing his favorite song. And it’s unexpected, unprecedented, and he wishes he could’ve recorded it because he doesn’t think he’d ever get tired of playing it back.)</p><p>“What?” he hears Iris question, her voice sounding amused.</p><p>“Hmm?” Barry hums, looking up from the magazine.</p><p>“You’re smiling.”</p><p>“I’m not smiling,” he says, still smiling.</p><p>(Of course he’s smiling. How could he not? He thinks he might not stop smiling, might fall asleep to the melody in his mind of her saying ‘Iris West-Allen,’ because they’re married, and he’s just so <i>happy.</i>)</p><p>Iris’ eyebrows go up in confusion, but she smiles anyway, because Iris <i>always</i> smiles at Barry, even when she doesn’t really understand him. </p><p>(And, yes, he’s fully aware that he’s losing his mind right in the middle of the library, thank you, but he’s the kind of happy that boarders on giddy stupidity and he just can’t bring himself to care.)</p><p>“They tell a new science joke in there or something?” Iris asks, nodding at the magazine in his hands. “Someone finally come up with something that rivals, <i>Don’t trust atoms, they make up everything</i>?”</p><p>“Nah,” Barry says, “all the good science jokes <i>argon</i>.”</p><p>And he’s still smiling so stupidly wide on the high of ‘Iris West-Allen’ that he doesn’t even try to swerve away when Iris swats his arm for his terrible pun.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris is on the floor in her bedroom, frantically going through her still unpacked boxes, white crumbled packing paper scattered around her like fallen snow, when she hears the sound of footsteps in the hall.<p>“Iris?”</p><p>She looks up to see Barry standing in her doorway, and he’s looking at her that way he sometimes does, where his eyes are all soft and one side of his mouth is quirked up, like he’s starting to smile but doesn’t even realize it yet.</p><p>“What’s so important that you’re making it look like Hoth in here?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Iris hums as she searches through another box, “nice Star Trek reference.”</p><p>(She knows it’s Star Wars. The Empire Strikes Back is Barry’s favorite movie right after Jurassic Park. She likes yanking his chain, though. He makes the cutest faces.)</p><p>Barry wrinkles his nose and looks appalled, adorably so.</p><p>“I find your lack of SciFi knowledge disturbing.”</p><p>“Terminator 2?”</p><p>“Please stop.”</p><p>Iris laughs, moves to sit on her bed instead of the floor. “I’ve been looking for where I packed my jewelry box,” she tells him. “People have noticed that I’ve shown up to class with a new last name, but no new ring. I’m worried everyone’s starting to get suspicious.”</p><p>(Well. Not exactly everyone. Linda had said, “You and Barry? I was wondering when that was going to happen,” and Iris must’ve looked confused, because Linda explained by saying, “Your eyes always light up whenever you talk about him.”</p><p>Which...didn’t explain much, because why wouldn’t her eyes light up when she talked about Barry? He was her best friend and was the living version of what would happen if someone got ahold of sunshine and formed it into a person.</p><p>Whose eyes <i>wouldn’t</i> light up when they talked about Barry?</p><p>But there had been other girls in her class, like Patty, who were suspicious about why she didn’t mention her wedding or have a ring, and when Professor Mason noticed her name change, he’d said, “Congratulations. Some people will get married to exploit the system, you know, and only get married on paper, but I’m sure that’s not your case,” and then he’d looked down at her bare left hand and then glanced at her every time he used the word <i>integrity</i> in his lecture, and Iris really didn’t need that, thank you very much.)</p><p>“I mean, it’s all perfectly legal,” Iris says, “I don’t see why everyone’s so judgmental - “</p><p>And then she cuts off the rest of her sentence, finds she’s been talking to an empty hall, and she frowns, because this is Barry, and Barry never just ignores her, but then she hears footsteps again, and he’s coming back from his room, something cupped in the palm of his hand.</p><p>“I think this can help,” he says, and then he holds something silver out to her that she recognizes immediately:</p><p>His mother’s ring.</p><p>(Iris remembers being seven and noticing how the three diamonds glittered on Nora Allen’s finger and caught every beam of light. And she remembers being eleven and Joe handing the ring to Barry, saying, “This is yours now,” and Barry carefully cradling it in the palm of his hand, like it was the most precious thing he’d ever held.)</p><p>And seeing it again, seeing Barry offering it to her, makes Iris’ breath catch somewhere behind her collarbone in a way she can’t quite explain. </p><p>“No,” Iris whispers, “I couldn’t.”</p><p>He smiles at her, a smile she doesn’t quite recognize, “Yes, you could.”</p><p>“It’s too special for me to wear.”</p><p>“<i>You’re</i> special.”</p><p>Iris shakes her head. Because the thing about Barry is, he’s infinitely sweet and tries to fix everything that’s ever bothered her, just like how she’s tried to fight everything that’s ever hurt him, but she doesn’t want him to use something as precious as his mother’s ring to solve her problem. She knows it was meant to be given to the love of his life, knows he should be saving it, keeping it safe and locked away until the day he meets the girl who holds total claim over his heart.</p><p>“Bear,” she says softly, and she wants to explain how much he means to her, how much he deserves, how he shouldn’t waste this ring on her, but he interrupts.</p><p>“Iris West-Allen,” he says, sinking down on the bed beside her. “I’ve always wanted my wife to wear it, I’ve always wanted yo— ” he cuts off abruptly, shaking his head lightly, rechoosing his words. “I want you to wear it, Iris. Really.”</p><p>Iris studies him, lets his words sink in. They’re side by side, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that their knees touch, close enough that Iris can count each of the freckles dusted across his face and see all the sea-like shades of blue and green that make up the pretty color of his eyes and the way his long lashes are delicately curved, fanning out over his cheekbones like butterfly wings.</p><p>Then he smiles at her, and the moment feels quiet and intimate, beautiful and hushed, like how you whisper in reverence or listen to softly sung lullabies or stare at a painting in silence because it’s too lovely to turn away from. </p><p>“Here,” he says, and he takes Iris’ left hand gently in his right, the soft pad of his thumb gliding along her skin and sending something like butterflies fluttering through her as he slides the ring on.</p><p>“It’s a perfect fit,” Iris whispers in awe.</p><p>(Fate. Kismet. Destiny. Barry’s a scientist by nature and Iris is a writer at heart, and over the years they’ve had discussions of words that she thinks sound pretty and he thinks don’t mean a thing. </p><p>But sometimes...sometimes things happen like this ring fitting perfectly on her finger, like it was cast in white gold just for her and the diamond’s wound its way down through history, survived wars and death and so many turns of events just waiting until the day she puts it on.</p><p>And Iris finds herself wondering if maybe destiny is a thing after all.)</p><p>“Yeah,” Barry says, as he stares down at the ring on her finger. “I really think it is.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I) I’ll try to post a new chapter every week, so you can subscribe to this fic or to my account if you want to be notified for when the next chapter goes up! In the meantime, you can also find me on Twitter (@irisbestallen) or Tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com), so come say hi if you want to fangirl over the Gold Standard™️.</p><p>II) This whole “we can’t give you any more money unless you’re legally married,” schtick is a real thing with American colleges. I researched the perks (like the free apartment), and while it does vary from college to college, these grants and loopholes really do exist. My first thought about finding out about it was, “That’s nuts,” quickly followed by, “Ah, yes, time for a westallen au.”</p><p>III) If you enjoyed this fic, I’d appreciate it if you dropped me a comment or kudos for motivation while I work on the next chapter. ❤️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. To Have and to Hold...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Unfortunately, there’s no store-bought greeting card that says, <i>Thank You for Fake Marrying Me, Sorry for Making Things Awkward</i>.</p><p>Hallmark’s kind of useless like that.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thought <i>I married Iris West</i> keeps running through Barry Allen’s head, over and over again, like it’s some sort of ticker-tape at the bottom of a news screen, playing end to end.</p><p>He should be thinking about the early morning physics class he’s likely going to be late for, about the formulas for his chemistry quiz, about how he probably shouldn’t be skipping breakfast, but no matter how he changes the channel, the ticker-tape’s always there, running along with his heartbeat:</p><p>
  <i>I married Iris West.</i>
</p><p>“You’ve got to stop that, Barry.”</p><p>Barry blinks, his head in the clouds and his hand on the door, trying to come back to reality, and when he does, he sees Iris staring at him. </p><p>He’s worries, for a second, that she can hear his thoughts. It wouldn’t be the first time.</p><p>And <i>stop</i> would be the correct answer, he reminds himself. Stop the ticker-tape from rolling out, stop thinking that any of this was real. It wasn’t. Remembering that was key.</p><p>(If this was a pop quiz, he’d definitely fail.)</p><p>“Stop what?”</p><p>“Stop skipping breakfast and letting your blood sugar drop, I swear you’re going to pass out on top of that little flame thing in the lab one day and set yourself on fire. And I <i>just</i> married you. I‘m not sure Central City University provides funding for widows who’ve only been married a week.”</p><p>And Barry wants to say: <i>“By ‘little flame thing’ do you mean a Bunsen Burner?”</i> and <i>“Technically, we’ve been married nine days. Yes, I’ve kept count, because I may have spent half my life being hopelessly in love with you,”</i> and also maybe, <i>“I think my heart stops every time I hear you mention that we’re married.”</i></p><p>But he doesn’t say any of that, because it would all sound wildly pathetic, probably.</p><p>Iris drags him away from where he stands by the door, then places both of her hands on the slope of his shoulders and pushes him down onto a stool, and he goes down easily, being the poor besotted bastard that he is. </p><p>And he should probably be checking his watch, but Iris’ first class isn’t til later, so she’s still wearing her sleep shorts, and he can see so much smooth, dark brown skin and the full curve of her thighs, and it’s terribly distracting and Barry ends up checking out something that is definitely not the time. </p><p>(He’s checking out his <i>wife</i>, the ticker-tape reminds him cheerfully.) </p><p>And then he hears her say:</p><p>“I made you a banana.”</p><p>(<i>This</i>, of all things, is finally what snaps him back.)</p><p>Barry wrinkles his brow, blinks in confusion, “You made me a banana?”</p><p>“I made you a banana,” Iris confirms, apparently seeing nothing confusing about her sentence, and then she proudly shoves something into his hands, and Barry looks down to see that he’s holding a dark red plate that contains one uncut bright yellow banana, which sits right in the very center, like it’s some sort of showpiece.</p><p>“Thank you?” he says, and he’s still a little confused, to be honest, about how exactly she made the banana, but Iris smiles, and his smile back is automatic, because he’s a lovesick idiot and his wife just made him breakfast.</p><p>Sort-of-wife.</p><p>Fake wife.</p><p>
  <i>Iris.</i>
</p><p>(He really needs to get a grip.)</p><p>And he tells himself to remember it’s not real, to think of his science class, to think of the semester he spent learning all about placebos, how a purely false pill could look real but wasn’t. </p><p>This marriage is just like that, he firmly tells himself. It’s fake. It’s only a placebo.</p><p>(It’s only later that Barry belatedly remembers the most important thing about placebos:</p><p>They still <i>felt</i> real.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>On her way out, Iris finds a pink envelope lying on the floor, slid under the gap in their apartment’s front door.<p>Puzzled, she picks it up, hooks her thumbnail under the seal and peels it off. And she feels Barry come up behind her, peering down curiously over her shoulder, standing so close that his soft exhales ghost over her curls as she opens the pink envelope up.</p><p>There’s a fancy card inside. The front is all sparkly, with silver bells and white doves with glittering wings, and a lavender banner with shimmering print that reads, <i>“Congratulations on your marriage!!!”</i> with not one, not two, but three exclamation points to make sure she understands the exact excitement of their felicitations.</p><p>Inside it says, “<i>Saw you and your husband walking by yesterday, though you two seemed too absorbed in each other to notice. You’re a beautiful couple, I can tell how in love you both are</i>.”</p><p>The card’s from her psychology professor.</p><p>The irony’s not lost on Iris.</p><p>(Or maybe...maybe it is.)</p><p>Barry, being as tall as he is, is able to read it perfectly from his spot right over her shoulder, and when Iris turns around, she sees that he’s as pink as the envelope and looks so completely mortified that she rushes to reassure him.</p><p>(Honestly, he even looks a bit queasy by what the card says, and Iris thinks that she would be insulted if they weren’t such great best friends.)</p><p>“I was thinking of dropping her class, anyway,” Iris tells him. “She’s not a very good psychologist.”</p><p>“Didn't you tell me she won an award - “</p><p>“Just in Denmark.”</p><p>“ - and wrote a book?”</p><p>“It’s the age of digital publishing. Everyone has a book out now. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ll just throw it out,” Iris says, and she jams the card back into its envelope. </p><p>Iris doesn’t throw it out like she said she would, though. Instead, she tucks it away in a corner, way in the back of her dresser drawer. </p><p>She only saves it because it will be a funny souvenir, she tells herself. A hilarious little card she can take out years from now and laugh about when this is all over, and tell people about how she and her now amicably divorced best friend swindled Uncle Sam into paying for both of their college educations.</p><p>(And just in case you haven’t figured it out yet:</p><p>Iris is a filthy, filthy liar.</p><p>To no one more than herself.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>When Barry was seven, his mom got him sneakers that lit-up, their lights blinking bright yellow when he moved, like there was lightning spiraling in the lining of his shoes. And he remembers running as far as he could on the high, going til he was breathless, just for a flash of the lights.<p>That’s how he feels with Iris, sometimes. Just like he’s seven years old again, running on thoughtless adrenaline, and like he’ll keep going til he’s breathless, just to catch a flash of her smile.</p><p>This is Iris, though, his best friend. She never makes him run very far. She’s smiling at him already. </p><p>He’s honestly not sure why, though. They’re walking up to their college together, side by side, their steps in sync, and she’s reading aloud from a stack of white flash cards as they go (<i>“Honestly, Bear, are these things even in English?</i>”), helping quiz him before his science test, and he’s just finished answering a question about the theory of relativity.</p><p>“What?” he asks. “Why are you smiling about Einstein’s groundbreaking scientific theory?”</p><p>“I can’t smile about Einstein?” </p><p>“No,” Barry decides. “Normally, this is where you say something sassy. Like when you asked if Harrison Wells’ supposed grand knowledge of the universe included twerking.”</p><p>“You never answered me, by the way.”</p><p>“Mostly because I didn’t ever want to have the mental image of Doctor Wells <i>twerking</i>.”</p><p>Iris throws her head back, letting out pearls of laughter, and the sound is so beautiful he thinks his heart stutters.</p><p>(He loves her laugh. Always has. The first time he ever heard it is etched like gold in his memory. He was six years-old and standing in the school yard, and the birds in the trees were singing, and Iris was laughing, and he remembers sending a silent apology up to the songbirds, because he thought they’d never sound anywhere near as pretty as her.)</p><p>“I was just thinking,” Iris says, one eyebrow raised in such a way that Barry already knows means <i>something</i> is going to come out of that smart mouth of hers. “If the theory of relativity sets the speed limit of the universe, I guess Einstein never saw you on a sugar rush trying to explain anime to me.”</p><p>Barry groans, puts his head in his hands, bumps into Iris’ side as he walks, and Iris laughs, leans into him for a minute before gently nudging him back.</p><p>“How can you still remember that?”</p><p>“You ate an entire bag of candy, Bear. I couldn’t even shake you for eating my share because you were already vibrating. And you kept trying to get me to understand Dragon Ball Z.”</p><p>“You kept asking me which one was the Khaleesi,” Barry says accusingly. “You <i>knew</i> Daenerys wasn’t in it.”</p><p>“Well, obviously, she’s from The Hobbit.”</p><p>Barry narrows his eyes at her suspiciously, torn between doubt and horror. Sometimes Iris really didn’t get things, like his favorite childhood anime, and other times...other times he was certain that she must be messing with him, like she enjoyed watching the faces he made when he went through all five stages of nerd grief.</p><p>This is one of those latter times, he realizes, watching the way her eyes are lit-up and her lips are pinched together, like she’s trying not smile. </p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” she says, entwining her arm with his. “You’re still the cutest nerd I know.”</p><p>He ducks his head, so she won’t catch the stupid way he’s smiling, “You’re impossible.”</p><p>She grins up at him, “I thought you liked the impossible.”</p><p>Oh, <i>he does</i>. A lot. That’s kind of the problem.</p><p>(Iris is basically what would happen if impossibility took a human form. Irreverent but wise, and sarcastic but kind, with a knife-sharp mind and a spellbinding smile. Impossibly smart as much as she was impossibly pretty.</p><p>So. Yeah. He’s hopelessly in love with the impossible.</p><p>Always has been.)</p><p>And he opens his mouth, thinks maybe if he said a third of what he thinks out loud instead of just in his head, maybe Iris wouldn’t also represent being impossible to get.</p><p>But before he can say anything, Iris stops in her steps, eyes apparently spotting someone up ahead, and since their arms are still looped together, he stops with her, looking down at her in confusion as she hisses:</p><p>“It’s <i>him</i>.”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“The one who thinks you’re not real,” Iris says, as if this explains everything. And when Barry tilts his head questioningly, because she’s making it sound like he’s some sort of myth like a chupacabra or something, she adds:</p><p>“My journalism professor, Mason. He thinks I just got a fake husband for the money.”</p><p>“Well, to be fair, you did just - “</p><p>“Really, Barry?”</p><p>“Right, not the point.”</p><p>“Hey,” Iris says, looking up at him, and he’s momentarily distracted by the way the heat of her breath is making plumes of white fog in the cold morning air when she talks. “I have an idea. Trust me?”</p><p>And the question is odd, but the answer is obvious. </p><p>(He remembers being eleven and his entire life shattering. Remembers learning that he couldn’t trust a world where detectives never found the truth and courts didn’t bring justice and good men went to jail while bad men went free. </p><p>He remembers Iris’ hand holding onto his like she was his anchor, and him thinking that he couldn’t trust the world...but he could trust her.)</p><p>“Always,” he says automatically.</p><p>And then Iris’ hand is on his chest.</p><p>“Iris?” he blinks in confusion, “What - “</p><p>But he doesn’t finish his sentence, because her fingers are suddenly tangling in the sky blue fabric of his sweater, right below the hollow of his throat and above the beat of his heart, and then she’s yanking him down to her, and she does it so swiftly he lets out a gasp, but it ends up muffled by her mouth.</p><p>(It’s like watching one of those vintage movies from the thirties, where the faulty old film reel suddenly goes sideways, flashing numbers and bright white, and the movie’s still playing, but it’s stuttering across the screen like it’s a skipping heartbeat.</p><p><i>That’s</i> what Barry’s brain feels like. Because <i>Iris is kissing him right in the middle of the quad</i> and now he’ll have kissed her <i>twice</i>, which is not a lot but still two times as much as he ever thought he was going to ever get to kiss her, to be perfectly honest.)</p><p>Her kiss is quick, fast as a flash of lightning, but her lips are soft and her mouth is hot, and her left hand ghosts along his jaw, and though she pulls away only a heartbeat later, he still feels like he’s just been shocked, like his blood is filled with static and his skin is made of sparks and all his nerves have been electrified, and he’s left completely stunned.</p><p>(Kissing Iris, he thinks, is what being struck by lightning must feel like. And it’s hard to remember that this is all a faux placebo when the placebo felt like <i>that</i>.</p><p>But that was the thing about placebos, wasn’t it?)</p><p>“Bye, babe,” Iris says a bit too loudly to be just for him, and she leaves Barry looking stupefied, watching her as she walks off to class and shoots a pointed look at an older man she passes, who Barry assumes is this Mason who didn’t think he was real.</p><p>And silently, Barry thinks:</p><p>
  <i>Thank you, Professor Mason, you beautifully suspicious old bastard.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris sits in class, stares at her syllabus, and does an admirable job of looking like she’s not silently going out of her mind.<p>If her morning was a story printed up in a newspaper, the four-inch, bold faced headline would read: <i>Local Woman Continues with Questionable Life Choices</i>, because <i>she’d kissed Barry and what on Earth was she thinking?</i></p><p>And she misses a quarter of the lecture, writes down notes that don’t mean a thing, and all she can think of is how she might’ve messed up everything, how she doesn’t want to make things awkward with Barry. </p><p>He was not hers. Not really, not like that. They were best friends. Marrying him was a bit like borrowing a book from the library. Just because you lived with it for a little bit didn’t make it yours, not when you knew you’d eventually have to give it back.</p><p>The book did look good with its shirt off, though. You know, objectively speaking.</p><p>(This is about the point Iris realizes that she’s lost her mind, by the way.)</p><p>She grimaces, puts her head on her desk, wonders how to fix this.</p><p>She definitely owes him an apology, she thinks. Or a thank you.</p><p>Both, probably.</p><p>Unfortunately, there’s no store-bought greeting card that says, <i>Thank You for Being My Fake Husband, Please Accept My Apologies for Actually Kissing You</i>.</p><p>Hallmark’s kind of useless like that.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>“Sorry,” Iris says when Barry sees her again. “Sorry, for kissing you.”<p>She winces when she says it, tilts her head to side, and she looks so nervous he rushes to reassure her.</p><p>“You can kiss me anytime,” he says.</p><p>Iris’ mouth comes open, but no words come out, and Barry realizes how that sounds.</p><p>“I meant for deception purposes,” he amends quickly, scrambling for an explanation. “That’s what I meant.”</p><p>(That is absolutely, positively not what he meant.)</p><p>“For deception purposes. Right.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Well. Thank you,” she says. “For kissing me.”</p><p>“Of course,” he tells her. “What are friends for?”</p><p>And then he mentally kicks himself.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris sits in the campus administrator’s office and signs <i>Iris West-Allen</i> out with a fountain pen, confirming her name change for the college’s files.<p>(Iris had thought, at first, that the new addition to her last name would feel odd, or that she’d forever be forgetting to write it, but she hasn’t forgotten so far, and her hyphenated addition flows out smoothly across the paper, like it was only natural to be there.</p><p>Maybe, she thinks, it’s because Barry’s been in so much of her life for so many years, it doesn’t feel surprising to find him in her signature too. They once had a middle school teacher who’d said, “Wherever West is, Allen will be also,” and it appears that, all these years later, that still hasn’t changed, in life or on paper.)</p><p>“I think I’ve seen your husband,” the campus administrator says, making conversation as Iris flips through the rest of the paperwork. “Is he the tall one who sometimes walks to class with you?”</p><p>Iris smiles, “That’s Barry.”</p><p>“So you two are in the same class?”</p><p>“No, he just walks me to mine. I walk him to his classes too, on the days he has his first. It’s just a thing we do,” Iris says, and <i>thing</i> seems insufficient to describe this habit they’ve fallen into, but even though Iris is a writer, she can’t seem to find the right word for it, because like so many other things in-between them, it’s managed to escape definition.</p><p>“That’s sweet,” the administrator says, smiling at her. “Did you two start doing that after you got engaged?”</p><p>“No, actually,” Iris answers. “That started long before we ever were a couple.”</p><p><i>Before</i> they were a couple. As if that’s what they actually were now.</p><p>And yet the lie slips out smoothly anyway, feeling at home on her tongue.</p><p>(A couple. Best friends. Husband and wife. There’s multiple labels for the two of them now, and none of them feel exactly right, but none of them felt <i>wrong</i>.</p><p>Their walks, it seems, aren’t the only thing that’s escaped definition.)</p><p>“He must really be in love,” the administrator says. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, sometimes, even after you walk away.”</p><p>Iris goes still, her pen pausing against the paper, her name halfway spelled out across the page.</p><p>Barry had a face that was open and sweet, and a heart that beat like it was only made to love. It left Iris a little in awe sometimes, how the world had broken his heart to pieces and cheated him out of happiness that deserved to be his, but he still had so much <i>love</i>. He should’ve been all rough edges and jagged pieces, sharp as shards of broken glass, but instead he was soft and kind and good, someone who still believed in impossible miracles.</p><p>And that, <i>that</i> is the miracle, Iris thinks: the way he’s so tenderhearted despite all of the pain.</p><p>(He spends so much time chasing after beautiful impossibilities, he never realizes he's one himself.)</p><p>But, anyway, that’s just how he was. He was sweet like that, affectionate by nature. Iris sees, where if you didn’t know him, you’d think that he was looking at her like he was in love with her. But they were just best friends.</p><p>It didn’t mean anything.</p><p>Did it?</p><p><i>”I’ve seen the way he looks at you, sometimes, even after you walk away,”</i> the administrator said. And the thought is tiny and preposterous, mostly nonsense, but Iris suddenly wonders if Barry looks at her any differently when she can’t see him.</p><p>(But that’s always the catch, isn’t it? The impossible trick question, the riddle in a fairytale. Because how could she have ever noticed how he looks at her when she’s not looking, <i>if she’s not looking?</i>)</p><p>And right when Iris thinks she’s already had her entire life’s foundation shaken enough for the day and she can’t go any more out of her mind, the administrator says:</p><p>“The FAFSA funding also supports student couples who are pregnant and have children, you know.”</p><p>Iris inhales so sharply she nearly chokes, dragging the pen ink illegibly across the page as her hand jerks, “<i>Excuse me?</i>“</p><p>“Well, like I said, I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” the administrator says nonchalantly, as if Iris’ mind isn’t spinning like mad and her pulse isn’t running insanely fast and she isn’t losing her mind in this dingy little college office. “And I just wanted to let you know that there are solid options, since it’s only natural that - “</p><p>“No,” Iris shouts, and it sounds a bit too loud for the small room, so she tries to lower her voice, but it doesn’t really work. “No, Barry and I, we aren’t actually...I mean we haven’t even - because of course we haven’t! We’re not - “</p><p>She can’t actually say any of those sentences, Iris realizes.</p><p>“So you two haven’t discussed children yet?”</p><p>No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course not. Not kids with each other, obviously. And it’s not like Barry would ever talk to her about any future kids he wanted, anyway.</p><p>Well. That wasn’t exactly true.</p><p>(One night, her and Barry stole a bottle of whisky and snuck up onto the roof, trading sips and hushed whispers under the quiet summer starlight, and she’d dared him to tell her a secret, something no one else on Earth knew.</p><p>And Barry’d taken a deep breath, held it for a second, then said that if he ever had a daughter, he’d want to name her Nora, because a Nora Allen still deserved to be in the world and to be loved by him.</p><p>And Iris’ chest had ached, with some type of longing that she couldn’t quite place, and she’d squeezed his hand and he’d squeezed hers back.</p><p>But that didn’t count and Iris definitely didn’t need to say that out loud.)</p><p>“We’re waiting,” Iris finally says, and she hastily shoves the paperwork back at the administrator and pushes her chair away so forcefully, she can hear it squeak against the floor. “We’re definitely waiting. For a really, really, really long time.”</p><p>Like forever. </p><p>“A wise choice,” the administrator says. “It’s best to focus on your education and careers now.”</p><p>Yes. Focus on her education. And career. And not on the fact that her and Barry were in a faux marriage. And just best friends. Nothing more.</p><p>(Besides, if her and Barry were to have kids, Iris wouldn’t want them right now, anyway. It was annoying and archaic, the way society pushed children on young women. She’d wait until she was older, after she had forged her own journalism career. Maybe until after she set up her own newspaper, and then her and Barry could discuss having a Nora and -</p><p>Wait. No. No way was she actually <i>thinking</i> about this, what was <i>wrong</i> with her? She must not be getting enough air in this stuffy office.</p><p>Her and Barry weren’t a real couple.</p><p>They weren’t ever having kids.)</p><p>Iris stands up so abruptly it’s dizzying, but she can’t be in this too small room anymore. Not with its too warm temperature and too thin air and this woman who asks too many questions and is making Iris feel like her head isn’t getting enough oxygen.</p><p>Iris turns, grabs her purse, all but runs out, and just before she slams the door shut behind her, Iris hears:</p><p>“If you two ever did have kids, I bet you’d make great parents.”</p><p>(And before Iris can tell herself not to think about it, she finds herself agreeing.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Here’s the thing about Barry and Iris, they know each other so well, it makes it impossible not to tell when the other’s bothered by something.<p>Sometimes, it feels like Barry has a field guide printed up in his mind to all of his best friend’s habits and expressions, from the competitive spark that lights up her eyes, to the way she presses her lips together when she cries. So he knows, by the way she’s half a second too slow with a laugh, and the way she hasn’t yet drank all her coffee, that something’s off.</p><p>And then there’s the way she keeps glancing at him, out of the corner of her eye, like she’s trying to find the answer to a question she’s not even sure of, or like she’s trying to catch him looking at her, when she thinks that <i>he</i> thinks that she’s not looking at him.</p><p>(The thing is, she can’t. It’s impossible for Barry not to feel her eyes on him.)</p><p>And he <i>knows</i> that something’s bothering her, something he’s guessing that happened with the administrator.</p><p>“Everything go okay?” he asks her.</p><p>“Of course,” she answers, and he counts the seconds it takes for her to look him in the eye.</p><p>Maybe she just needs cheering up, he decides.</p><p>“I saw a cute baby video today,” he says, because Iris likes that kind of thing. </p><p>And Iris coughs, nearly chokes on her coffee, and when she sets her mug down on the table it’s just a little too hard.</p><p>He frowns, “You okay? Anything you want to talk about?”</p><p>“Good. I’m good,” she says. “Just heard a bit too much about babies today. What about you? What’s on your mind?”</p><p>And because he can’t tell Iris he’s worrying about her, he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head, which is:</p><p>“Placebos.”</p><p>He screws up his face at his Freudian Slip, thinks she’ll find it strange, but he must ramble about so many random scientific topics that Iris doesn’t find it unusual, and she nods like, <i>of course you are,</i> taking it in stride.</p><p>“I wrote an article about them for the college paper last year,” she tells him, picking up her coffee cup again. “Some of the med students on campus were doing a study. You know what really got me about the Placebo Effect? The way there’s an opposite.”</p><p>Barry frowns, tilts his head, “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, you know the general set-up, I’m guessing. Half the student volunteers got a real pill, and the other half got a placebo. The volunteers knew there would be placebos involved, but they weren't told which of them was given a real pill and who wasn’t.”</p><p>“Because that would ruin the results.”</p><p>“Right, but in the end, my editor only wanted me to interview those who had been given the placebo,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I thought it’d be more interesting to interview the other half.”</p><p>Barry shakes his head slightly, confused but fascinated, “Why?”</p><p>“Because you always read about people who thought they got something real and it ended up being fake. That’s a boring, standard article. There’s a million like it,” Iris says, wrinkling her nose.</p><p>“So what did you want to write?”</p><p>“I wanted to see if there was the opposite, anyone who was given a real pill but thought it had been fake. Because that’s got to happen, you just never read about it,” Iris says, her hands all animated and her voice all passionate, the way she always gets when she talks about writing. “Somewhere in amongst all the people and all the odds, there’s someone who was absolutely <i>certain</i> they got a placebo, but in the end, found out they had the real thing all along.”</p><p>And Barry stares at her, stunned and full of wonder, because there she goes again, making his mind spin and his world shift with her point of view. And her last sentence goes around and around and around in his head, like it’s some sort of carousel or spinning record, because <i>how had he not ever thought of that before?</i></p><p>“What?” Iris asks, laughing lightly at his expression. “It’s not impossible, is it?”</p><p>“No,” Barry says, softly. “No, it’s not impossible.”</p><p>And in his chest, he feels something a little like hope.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>It’s ten p.m. on a Saturday night, and one of the old movie musicals Barry likes is on tv, and Iris is on the couch next to him, curled up on her knees, the flickering screen glowing in the darkness of their apartment.<p>(“How did you two become such an old married couple already?” Linda had teased her when Iris said they weren’t going out that weekend, and Iris had scoffed, because she was staying home since she had an essay to finish that counted as a third of her grade, and Barry was staying home because he tended not to want to go out if it wasn’t with her, and <i>that</i> was why they weren’t going out this weekend, not because her and Barry were an old married couple, <i>shut up, Linda</i>. </p><p>The fact that she ended up on the couch next to Barry at an obnoxiously early time and the whole scene looked very domestic was sheer coincidence.)</p><p>And Iris is trying to watch the old musical movie, but her fingers ache from typing, and she sees a blinking cursor and text in Times New Roman whenever she closes her eyes, and she’s just so <i>tired</i>, the type of tired you feel deep in your bones, the kind that makes your whole body feel heavy and slow.</p><p>And she finds herself yawning and leaning more and more against Barry as each scene goes by, and she doesn’t really mean to sink into his side so much, but it’s like his body’s quicksand and she’s happy to succumb. And the warmth radiating off of him draws her in as she rests her head against his chest, curling up against him.</p><p>“Iris?” he asks, and he sounds sort of amused, sort of uncertain, like Iris is a cat who’s decided to take a nap on him and he’s not sure what to do. And with the way she’s lying against him, when he says her name, she can feel his voice resonate deep in his chest, and she knows she should reply, or apologize, or try to move, but she just can’t bring herself to. </p><p>The plaid flannel shirt he’s wearing is soft against her cheek, and she can hear the cadence of his heartbeat as her eyes fall closed. And though she’s not really sleeping, she lies there long enough, quiet and still and looking numb to the world, that eventually she feels Barry’s arm come down to settle around her, his hand resting lightly on her side, right over the curve of her ribcage.</p><p>And she thinks he must really believe she’s actually asleep, because when the movie’s next song comes on, Iris hears him begin to sing.</p><p>And Iris’ breath catches, stalled somewhere beneath her collarbone, because the thing about Barry - the thing only a small handful of people in this world have the privilege to know - is that his voice is beautiful. </p><p>He sings along all careful and low, like he’s trying to mind not to wake her up, but even that can’t lessen how gorgeous and clear his voice is, how it’s so lovely it <i>aches</i>, and she thinks she can get drunk on the sound. </p><p>It kind of makes her feel like the way she does when she falls asleep to the sound of rain, or gets high on sweet champagne, like the world is softer, somehow. And him singing now is something special, something she’s not even supposed to be awake to know, and it feels sort of like stealing, or learning a secret, and Iris wants to hold her breath so she can catch each and every golden note, but his hand is lying on her side, fingertips right above her ribs, rising and falling with the breath in her body, and Iris knows he’ll feel it if she stops, and then he’ll stop, and she doesn’t want that.</p><p>So she lies there, trying to keep her breathing steady, listening to the way his voice sounds all beautiful and smooth, like silk running over skin or golden honey slowly spilling out of a jar. </p><p>And just a heartbeat before she drifts off to sleep, Iris thinks that if any of this was real, if her and Barry really were a couple and they really ever did have a kid...</p><p>They would get to hear the prettiest lullabies.</p><p>(And she doesn’t know it yet:</p><p>But when she dreams, she dreams of Nora.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I) Yes, Barry and Iris are really just sitting there both thinking that the other’s the human personification of an impossible miracle, one who would never be in love with them. Yes, it’s canon that they’re both that stupid.</p><p>II) Iris’ feral, unhinged energy when she crashes a funeral so she can get married in S4 is the energy that powered a good portion of this chapter. Thank you for your gorgeous face and chaotic life choices, queen.</p><p>III) Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 are westallen having themselves a game of fluff trope bingo. In Chapter 3, they’ll get a bonus angst trope bingo card to play with too. This is still very much a romcom and it’s still going to be fluffy (because this is westallen, and westallen’s brand is being mind-bendingly cute), but let’s be honest here: some of the best tropes are angsty. Plus, Iris and Barry do angst very well. They’ve got natural dramatic flair like that.</p><p>IV) A huge thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos last week. This week’s chapter wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the comments you left me, tbh. I hadn’t been sure if posting this fic was worth it, since writing swallows up so much free time, but everyone who left me a comment here or messaged me on Tumblr was just so nice and it also made me realize that you guys enjoyed the same tropes as me. All of us westallen fans are just collectively like: We haven’t seen the gold standard onscreen together in forever and we’re all trash for tropes. Let’s go bury ourselves in fanfic.</p><p>V) I hope you liked Chapter 2, and if you did, I’d love it if you dropped me a comment or kudos for Chapter 3 writing motivation, because I’m beat, you guys. 😅 ❤️ And if you’re new here, this is a reminder you can hit subscribe if you want to be notified when the next chapter goes up, and that you can also find me on Twitter (@irisbestallen) or Tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com) if you want to fangirl about my otp with me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. In Sickness and in Health...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Sorry,” Iris says, not sounding very sorry at all. </p><p>“It’s okay,” Barry tells her, his eyes lighting up with laughter because he knows her far too well to fall for her fake apology. “Everything became fifty percent yours when we got married, anyway.” </p><p>(Except for his heart, though. That’s one hundred percent hers, always has been. He just wishes he had the nerve to tell her.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barry thinks about Iris.</p><p>About the possibilities. About the impossibilities. About placebos and realities and the endless and the finite and everything in-between.</p><p>(It shouldn’t be a surprise, really, that he’s spent his whole life chasing after the impossible once you see the girl he fell in love with.)</p><p>He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a quarter, watching it glint in his palm in his room’s morning light.</p><p>Heads, he won’t tell her. Tails, and he will.</p><p>He tosses the coin, watches the silver turn over in the air, catches it in his palm...</p><p>
  <i>Tails.</i>
</p><p>He swallows hard, thinks: </p><p>Maybe this is sign, maybe this is more than mere chance and gravity, maybe it’s time to finally come clean.</p><p>But it’s like he’s on the edge of some precipice, and he can’t quite make the leap.</p><p>He flips the coin again says,</p><p>“Maybe best two out of three.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>(And while Barry’s in his room, tossing another chance in the air, watching a coin spin on the table, the odds split down the middle, Iris is in her room, slipping on her wedding ring and wondering when it became second nature.)<div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry is studying when it happens.<p>He knows he’ll be working in Lab B at the science building in the afternoon, so before he goes off to class, he’s spending his morning looking over chemical laws, over combinations and catalysis, the process of increasing the rate of a chemical reaction. </p><p>And then he hears Iris walk in, and he’s about to babble about how a catalyst can create this sped-up version of a chemical reaction in something else without feeling any lasting change itself, and isn't that <i>amazing</i>, that any one thing can have this incredible effect without even knowing it? </p><p>Then he looks up and actually sees her.</p><p>And then promptly chokes on his tongue, because <i>Iris is wearing his shirt.</i></p><p>(He wonders if he’s too young to have a stroke.)</p><p>It’s one of his white button-down dress shirts, and Iris has taken it and tucked it into one of her form-fitting black pencil skirts. And the shirt collar’s open, the first four buttons all undone, and it’s flowing and lose until it turns tight across her chest, the material stretching out thin in a way it absolutely does <i>not</i> on him, before she’s gathered it in with a belt right where her waist dips in, above the full curve of her hips.</p><p>And it’s like the sight of it sends too many emotions flashing through him for Barry to completely comprehend, like he’s trying to listen to three different songs, playing all at once. There’s this sense of possessive pleasure at seeing her wearing something that’s <i>his,</i> like she’s all wrapped up in him. And then there’s this deep pool of desire, this pure ache of wanting, because how could he not, <i>she’s wearing his shirt</i>, wearing it better than he ever did, and it looks like <i>that</i> on her. But there’s this other emotion too, and it’s difficult for him to pin down or put words to, but he thinks it has to do with how intimately domestic it feels, how inherently familiar they are with each other for this to have even happened.</p><p>(Or maybe, maybe it’s the overwhelming idea that this, <i>this</i> is what it could be like if they were a real husband and wife and this type of thing happened all the time. And Barry feels like he’s catching a glimpse of some alternate version of his life, the two different realities bleeding together like watercolors on a canvas, just for a split-second glance.)</p><p>“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, like he’s Captain Obvious.</p><p>(It’s the only coherent sentence his mind is letting him have besides <i>I think you just gave me a heart attack</i>, and he’d better not say that.)</p><p>“Hmm? Oh,” Iris glances down, as if this is so completely casual, as if it’s no big deal, as if the fact that she’s stolen it hasn’t just nearly killed him.</p><p>(And dimly, Barry remembers his textbook citing how catalysts can completely alter something without feeling anything themselves, and he thinks about chemistry and placebos and wonders if his life is always going to echo all the science lessons in the world.)</p><p>“We have a Pulitzer-winning journalist coming to visit the class today; she owes Mason a favor, so she’s kind of going to be like a substitute teacher,” Iris explains, as she slips her heels on and Barry does a very good impression of someone who’s not going into cardiac arrest at the sight of his shirt dipping lower on her. “And I really want to impress her, but my blouse is in the wash, and I don’t have anything that looks professional to wear with this skirt, so I borrowed one of your shirts. That okay?”</p><p><i>That okay?</i> Yes. Absolutely. Definitely. She could wear his shirt however long she wanted. And then when she was done with it, she could have all his other shirts too.</p><p>“Barry?”</p><p>Words. Words would be good, he thinks. He should try saying some. Out loud.</p><p>“Yeah, absolutely,” he chokes out. “Wife privileges, right?”</p><p>Then he laughs, partly to play his words off as a joke because he’s a coward, and partly because he still has zero coherency since, just in case he hasn’t mentioned it yet, <i>Iris is wearing his shirt</i>.</p><p>“Wife privileges. Right,” Iris repeats. “Who knew marrying you would come with such perks, Barry Allen?”</p><p>And then she smiles.</p><p>And she’s wearing his shirt and his mother’s ring, and he thinks she looks more radiant than any other living thing.</p><p>(And that’s the story of the first time he almost dies that day.</p><p>He prefers it much more than the second one.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris is laughing when she sees it.<p>She’s walking out of class with Linda and Kamila, smiling all careless and wide, because the guest Pulitzer-winning journalist was so impressed with their writing and questions, she actually spent time talking to them.</p><p>(Iris had found herself giddily sneaking a text to Barry during class that said <i>‘She told me I had amazing prose!!!’</i> all excited, like she was some starry-eyed seven-year-old who’d just met a princess at Disney World. She knew Barry’d understand. One time he got so excited during a lecture he’d sent her photos of the projection screen and Iris hadn’t really understood what the science lingo on it meant, but she’d slid her phone behind her book and texted Barry back a flurry of hearts and thumbs-up emojis because she automatically loved anything that made him that happy.)</p><p>And now Linda is joking that meeting the ‘Pulitzer-winning queen’ was the most fangirling the three of them have ever done over a celebrity, and Iris is lighter than air and she’s laughing.</p><p>And <i>then</i> she sees smoke, and the laughter dies on her lips.</p><p>There’s not much of it, but it’s startlingly grey as it winds up against the cloudless blue sky, and Iris frowns, immediately starts looking around. </p><p>It only takes her a second to recognize all the signs of danger. Or, more specifically, her instincts tell her, the aftermath of it. There are staff members deep in conversation outside when they’re normally inside hiding away, and then there’s an onslaught of students coming toward her, and they’re not exactly running, per say, but they’re not simply strolling either. And there’s too many of them at once for this time of day.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Iris says, stepping down into the crowd and reaching out for whoever she can get to stop. “What’s happened?”</p><p>And the answers she gets are shouted out in passing, thrown over their shoulders as they all keep walking. And she hears:</p><p>
  <i>“There was a fire in the building. Some sort of mini explosion started it.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“People were hurt, someone tweeted that a few were in critical condition.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I saw some guy on a stretcher.”</i>
</p><p>“What building?” Iris asks, but no one answers her -  they’re all trying to get further away from the smoke, not wanting to stop. “Where was the explosion?”</p><p>(Iris already knows somehow, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she <i>needs</i> this answer, that it will be important.</p><p>That it will terrify her.)</p><p>Iris stops a boy in the crowd who looks vaguely familiar, holds onto his arm, not letting him get away until he answers.</p><p>“Where was the fire?” Iris asks. “<i>Can you tell me exactly where it was?</i>“</p><p>And he looks slightly frightened by her intensity, and Iris is about to repeat her question, but then he says: </p><p>“I think it was in Lab B, in the science building.”</p><p>Lab B. </p><p>The lab Barry was going to be in today. </p><p>And the other snippets of information come floating back to her, frightening and dangerous, like ashes in the air: </p><p>
  <i>“Some sort of mini explosion started it.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“People were hurt, someone tweeted that a few were in critical condition.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I saw some guy on a stretcher.”</i>
</p><p>It’s like everything’s in slow motion, like a single second’s being stretched out. Like her heart’s caught between beats and she can’t even breathe. </p><p>And all she can think is: <i>Barry.</i></p><p>And then she runs.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Fun Fact Number One: Barry would’ve seen the explosion behind him starting, if only he hadn’t been sneaking out his phone to read the text Iris sent him. He was supposed to be paying attention to the professor, but Iris was telling him how the Pulitzer-winning journalist liked her prose and her excitement was contagious even through the phone and all he could think was <i>that’s his best friend in the world and his wife</i> and he was so <i>proud</i> of her.<p>Fun Fact Number Two: If Barry had seen the explosion starting, he would’ve dodged away, toward the window.</p><p>Fun Fact Number Three: The toxic chemical spray hit the space by the window <i>right</i> where Barry would’ve dodged to, turning it black and burning it up, flames spreading all across the wall.</p><p>Fun Fact Number Four: Iris has somehow just saved his life. <i>Again.</i></p><p>He thinks maybe he should tell her one day just how many times she’s been his hero.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div><i>Barry.</i><p>One single name. Two short syllables. Five little letters.</p><p>And the only word echoing around in Iris’ mind. </p><p>She is running, faster than she’s ever run before, and she’s pushing fiercely against the oncoming sea of people like she’s trying to fight against waves, because they’re going the opposite way, trying to get away from the danger, but she’s running toward it, toward <i>Barry</i>.</p><p>And the lab building comes into view - all shaky and distorted with her movement because she doesn’t even stop running to let it come into focus - and Iris sees a yellow ring of caution tape around it. And there are fire trucks and idling ambulances, their lights flashing bright gold and blood red, and there are campus nurses and paramedics, and <i>of course</i> they’re there, it only makes sense that they’re there - it’s good that they are - but the sight still makes Iris sick, reaches right into her chest and <i>twists</i>.</p><p>(It’s this deep feeling of brutal dread. An almost violent kind of fear, all vicious and sinister, as if it’s trying to kill her. Like she’s been shoved down a dead-drop and is scared of falling forever, but is even more terrified of finally hitting the ground.</p><p>She thought she’d known fear before, but as it happened, she’d never even caught a glimpse of it til now.)</p><p>And then a paramedic moves slightly, and Iris sees a familiar flash of brown hair and a lanky frame she’d know anywhere.</p><p>
  <i>Barry.</i>
</p><p>The sight makes her run even faster, ducking down under the caution tape barrier. The college nurses and staff turn in alarm and the action, and she thinks someone tries to grab her, but Iris pays them no attention. They’d have to catch her first, and she’s going so fast now she’s only a blur.</p><p>“Hey,” one of the college nurses calls after her. “<i>Hey</i>, you can’t <i>do</i> that!”</p><p>But she <i>does</i>.</p><p>“I’m his wife,” Iris shouts, pushing her way in. “I’m his <i>wife</i>.”</p><p>(She doesn’t even realize she’s shouting it, isn’t thinking about what term she’s choosing to connect herself to him. Her gut responses have taken over, and the word just feels <i>right.</i></p><p>One day, she will look back on this. One day, she will be sitting somewhere and she’ll remember just how fiercely she screamed the word <i>wife</i>, and she will think about how her heart knew just how much she was in love with him far before her head ever did.</p><p>But that’s later. Right now all she can think of is reaching Barry.)</p><p>And finally, finally after all that, she <i>does</i> reach him.</p><p>He’s conscious, he’s <i>alive</i>. He’s on a gurney, not lying down, but sitting up sideways, almost casually, those long legs of his hanging carelessly off the side as a paramedic finishes checking his eyes. </p><p>(And finally, <i>finally</i> she can inhale. It’s as if she’s been under water all this time, holding her breath til it hurts, and seeing him again is like getting to come up for air at last.)</p><p>“Barry?” Iris breathes, still taking him in.</p><p>“Iris?” he stands, stares in surprise. “How did you even - ” </p><p>She hugs him before he can finish. And she throws her arms around him and folds him against her so fast, it’s like they’re colliding, like she’s collapsing into him and holding him up all at once, like she’s being saved as much as she’s saving him. And he smells of smoke and chemicals, but she breathes him in anyway, holding him close, sinking into the feeling of his arms coming around her, of his hands splayed out across her back.</p><p><i>He’s okay.</i> Iris tells herself. <i>He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.</i> And the words keep repeating themselves in her head, over and over again, like a mantra, or a touchstone, or a poem she just can’t let go of. </p><p>But then she’s pulling away again. Not backing up, not far enough that she has to stop touching him, but leaning back just enough so she can look at him, to check that he’s really alright.</p><p>“Are you hurt?” she asks, and her hands are on his face, on his arms, on his chest, running over him, trying to make sure nothing’s broken, that he’s not burned or bleeding. </p><p>And then Iris sees it: Some sort of burn or bruise on his forehead, bright red blossoming into black and blue. </p><p><i>“Bear,”</i> she says, and she reaches up, as if she wants to heal it with her touch, but she retracts her hand, fingers curling in, afraid of hurting him. “You’re injured.”</p><p>“Not much,” he tells her. “It looks much worse than it feels.”</p><p>“But - “</p><p>“I’m okay, Iris,” he reassures her. “I’m okay.”</p><p>She stares at him, like she wants to believe him but can’t, like she wants to be relieved but is too afraid to be, because all she knows is that for a few terrifying minutes she was worried that life was trying to take her best friend away from her, and the shouted words <i>critical condition</i> and <i>guy on a stretcher</i> keep ringing in her ears.</p><p>Barry’s green eyes search hers, and then he takes her left hand in his right and gently brings it up to his chest, lets her palm press against the space beneath his breastbone, right over the beat of his heart. And he holds her hand there underneath his, his fingers right above her wrist, and runs his thumb once over the gentle rise and fall of her knuckles as she feels the rhythm of his heart.</p><p>“Still beating,” he says.</p><p>“Still beating,” she repeats softly.</p><p>And there’s flashing lights and leftover smoke and commotion all around them, but they both stand utterly still, two motionless figures quiet amongst the chaos, like they’re caught in their own little sphere of time, suspended apart from everything else.</p><p>And when Iris looks down, all she can see is her diamond wedding ring on her hand, against his shirt, over his heartbeat.</p><p>And it’s like something inside Iris is telling her <i>focus</i>, saying <i>remember this moment</i>, and she doesn’t know why, but she can’t exactly seem to tear her gaze away either.</p><p>The ring gleams bright in the hazy light, like some kind of North Star right on her finger, and she stares at it sparkling right over the melody of Barry’s still-beating heart.</p><p>And somewhere, somewhere far in the back of her mind, she finds herself thinking:</p><p>
  <i>Til death do us part.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Almost dying has a funny way of making you feel alive.<p>Or maybe, maybe it’s just Iris who makes him feel utterly and completely <i>alive.</i></p><p>Barry’s sitting on the gurney when he sees her. He’s got lungfuls of smoke and a bruising burn on his forehead and he’s trying to wrap his mind around the fact that if he’d been two feet to the left he’d be lying in a hospital bed right now instead.</p><p>Then he sees Iris. </p><p>She emerges from amidst the curling smoke and blurring red lights, her hair billowing out, curls beautifully dark against his stark white shirt that she’s wearing. And he thinks that if his life were a movie, he’s sure she would be in slow motion, and the music behind her would swell, because she looks absolutely beautiful, like some kind of superhero, appearing right when she’s needed.</p><p>He thinks he says her name, and he wants to ask her how she even knew, how she even <i>got</i> to him, because he knows there’s a maze of yellow caution tape and medics and ambulances and a dozen other obstacles that should’ve been between them, but she was <i>there</i> with <i>him</i>. </p><p>But he doesn’t get to ask, because Iris all but launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and his arms go around her automatically as he bends backward slightly from the sheer force of her hug. And then she’s gone again, talking to the paramedic about him, asking questions with a journalistic type of tenacity, writing down names of things and symptoms to look for on her phone.</p><p>And Barry moves from the gurney, sits down on the steps instead, watching Iris and the paramedic from several feet away. And he tries to look around, but it’s like the world’s still hazy, like he’s trying to see it through a camera that just can’t quite come into focus. But then his gaze goes back to Iris, and his eyes zero in clearly right on the ring on her hand, sparkling like starlight caught on a band. </p><p>And he thinks of how the ring was a perfect fit. Thinks of how right the words <i>“I’m Mrs. West-Allen,”</i> sound in Iris’ mouth.</p><p>And he thinks:</p><p>No more hesitating, no more waiting for signs. No more pennies in the air, no more letting fate decide. He’s choosing this time.</p><p>He’s going to tell her.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>The paramedic she hunted down finishes answering Iris’ multiple, detailed questions about Barry, and satisfied, Iris closes her notes and slips her phone back into her pocket. And Iris is about to make her way back to Barry when, from somewhere behind her, she hears:<p>“I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as you did.”</p><p>Iris turns, sees the Pulitzer-winning journalist from earlier standing behind her, her pressed pantsuit somehow still looking immaculate out of the classroom and amongst the chaos.</p><p>Iris tilts her head curiously, “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Came outside. Saw the smoke. Watched you shoot off toward it like a comet,” the journalist says as she shrugs. “I can never resist a story, the need to know what’s going on is just too strong. It’s like this feeling that you just might die if you don’t find out what you need to. But you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>Iris swallows, remembers feeling like she was waiting to hear whether her world was ending or not, “Yeah. I do.”</p><p>“You speeding over here did nothing to dull your thinking, either. I heard you talking with the paramedic just now,” the journalist says, nodding toward the ambulance. “You came up with those questions on the spot, all rapid fire in under a minute. Most people wouldn’t be able to do that. Swift feet and a quick wit is a good combination to have in this profession.”</p><p>“I wasn’t asking those questions for an article.”</p><p>The journalist shrugs, “Maybe not, but you still sounded like a journalist. Those skills don’t just disappear when you’re not holding a recorder in your hand or meeting a deadline, you know. They’re there when you’re using your skills for something else too.”</p><p>Or for <i>someone</i> else, Iris thinks, and her eyes automatically drift back toward Barry, like she can’t keep her gaze away.</p><p>The journalist follows Iris’ line of sight, says, “I know a story when I see one.”</p><p>And Iris is about to agree, to say that Barry Allen is quite a story, but then the journalist adds:</p><p>“And there’s definitely a story in the way you look at him.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry watches as a woman in a pressed pantsuit hands Iris a card and Iris takes it, wonderstruck for just a second. And then Iris walks back over to him, somehow looking both attentive and dazed, like she’s aware of what’s going on, but just can’t quite believe it.<p>“You okay?” Iris asks when she reaches him, running her hand that isn’t holding onto the card over his back.</p><p>“I’m fine,” he assures her, before nodding at the retreating figure. “Who was that you were just talking to?”</p><p>Iris shakes her head, looks down at the card with a disbelieving smile, says:</p><p>“<i>That</i> was Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Lois Lane.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris stands in her living room doorway, watching Barry.<p>Watching him is a habit she got into as a kid and just never grew out of. She knows his face well enough to map it out from memory now, from the four freckles that dot their way down his cheekbones like falling stars, to the way his eyes crinkle around the corners when he’s happy and laughing, like his smile takes up so much of his face, his eyes have to squint to make space.</p><p>So Iris watches him now from the doorway’s shadow, eyes running over him, looking for signs that he’s really alright. He’s on the couch, hasn’t noticed her watching him yet, and she’s grateful, because she doesn’t want him to see her staring, doesn’t want him to take one look at her face as she mentally runs over the warning signs the paramedic gave her, and know how worried she was. How worried she somehow still is. Barry always worries when she worries. </p><p>(It’s a trait she’d like to scoff at, only she can’t, because she’s the exact same way with him.)</p><p>“Iris?”</p><p>Barry finally sees her and turns around, rising up off the couch, and she moves toward him, trying to get him to stop.</p><p>“Don’t get up,” she says, trying to motion for him to sit back down, even though she knows he won’t. Barry’s always had a restless energy about him, ever since he was a kid, like he could outrun flashes of lightning. “I came to see if you needed anything.”</p><p>“I’m good,” he says, and then his eyes skim down her, taking her in, and he blinks in surprise, says, “You're still wearing my shirt.”</p><p>She is. She’s taken off her pencil skirt, but her tights are still on and his shirt is so long on her, it falls halfway down her thighs like a dress. And it’s roomy and nice and she doesn’t want to take it off, thinks that Barry might not be getting it back at all, honestly.</p><p>“I am,” Iris says, pushing up one of the sleeves that’s slipped past her fingertips, and though she doesn’t exactly mean it, she adds, “Sorry about taking it.”</p><p>Barry laughs, and it sends his green eyes glittering.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he tells her, wearing a teasing smile that says he knows her far too well to fall for her fake apology. “Everything became fifty percent yours when we got married, anyway.”</p><p>Iris raises an eyebrow, amused at how amused <i>he</i> is at her lack of remorse, “Is that so?”</p><p>He nods solemnly, “I think it’s the law or something.”</p><p>“Does that include fifty percent of your fries?”</p><p>“Mmm, no. But it includes that blue shirt you made me change out of.”</p><p>“Good, then I can feel free to burn that ugly thing.”</p><p>Both his eyebrows go up as he grins, “Burn it? Seriously?”</p><p>“Seriously. It looks terrible, Barry. It’s as bad as that look you tried out during that one phase of yours in high school,” she tells him, enjoying the way he throws his head back with a groan when she mentions it. “You know, when you grew out your bangs and wore those nerdy t-shirts with - ”</p><p>“Hey, I thought we agreed to pretend that visual terrorism never happened.”</p><p>“I’ve got photos,” Iris sing-songs. “Photos of your poor life choices.”</p><p>“Joke’s on you, if you show those photos to anyone, you have to admit that you saw me looking like that and still chose me as your fake husband anyway. <i>Then</i> who really looks like they made poor life choices?”</p><p>Iris rolls her eyes, “Shut up. No choice I’ve ever made involving you has been poor.”</p><p>He smiles even wider, the spark in his eyes getting even brighter, and he seems completely fine, like he’s laughing and teasing like normal, like he hasn’t been in a building on fire and checked out by a paramedic today, and Iris can’t help the once-over she gives him just to see if he’s trying to hide that he’s hurt. </p><p>(She’s seen Barry try to hide his pain before. One time, back in high school, Tony Woodward gave him a bruised rib, and Barry had tried to hide it. And he’d done it well, Iris supposes in hindsight, but he was Barry and she was Iris, and she could always tell. </p><p>And she remembers him finally letting her see the injury and her feeling like her heart was twisting, shock bleeding into horror, like she’d just seen someone rip apart a work of art or light the Louvre on fire, because there were some things in life that were so precious and beautiful it could shatter your soul if you ever saw them hurt. </p><p>She’d punched Tony in the face the next time she saw him. The only reason her dad found out was because she’d punched Tony so hard her knuckles bruised. And when her dad had asked if she had any regrets, Iris had only said, <i>“I would’ve punched him even harder.”</i>)</p><p>“Hey,” Barry says lightly, getting her attention. “It’s okay. No one beat me up.”</p><p>Her brow furrows, “How did you - “</p><p>“You had that look in your eye again. Like you would have curled up your hand and punched your fist right into the fire if only you could.”</p><p>“I <i>would</i>,” Iris says automatically, not even needing to think about it. Because that’s the thing, she would face down anything if it meant protecting her best friend.</p><p>Barry’s eyes take her in for a minute, studying her face like he’s both looking for answers and running over the right words to say.</p><p>“Iris,” he says, “I - ”</p><p>But Iris interrupts him, doesn’t let him finish. He’d been just like this after she punched Tony, bandaging her up with tender hands while lecturing her, telling her she shouldn’t have, that he could fight his own battles, that he’d rather get beat up twenty times than risk her getting hurt once. And she’d only repeated to Barry what she’d told her father: Her only regret was not hitting Tony even harder.</p><p>(“What do you mean you wish you punched him <i>harder</i>?” she remembers Barry asking her, and his voice had been incredulous but his hands had been gentle as they ghosted over her knuckles. “Iris, you already knocked him flat on his back.”</p><p>She had shrugged, “I <i>said</i> what I <i>said</i>, Barry.”)</p><p>“We should clean the bruise, like the paramedic said to,” Iris tells him, not letting him get a chance to tell her something stupid like not to always go to bat for him. </p><p>Barry stops saying whatever he was going to, shakes his head instead, “You really don’t need to do that, Iris.”</p><p>“Do you really want to do it yourself?”</p><p>He thinks about it, presses his lips together, shakes his head <i>no</i>.</p><p>“Thought so.”</p><p>Barry’s always been terrible at taking care of himself. He pushes himself too far or too fast, and his idea of dealing with feeling bad is to ignore it until all he can do is collapse. Iris remembers finding him slumped over on a bench once, completely out cold, an over-stuffed schedule and a stack of textbooks next to him, and she had woken him up and walked him back to his dorm, following him in with a lecture on her lips.</p><p>(“You’re not invincible,” she’d said, “you need to take breaks.”</p><p>“I was taking a break!”</p><p>“Passing out on a public bench does not count as taking a break, Bartholomew Henry Allen.”</p><p>He’d wrinkled his nose, “‘Bartholomew?’ Am I in trouble?”</p><p>“You are definitely in trouble,” she’d snapped at him, and her words would’ve held more weight if she hadn’t been handing him a blanket and a brownie.)</p><p>Her best friend was somehow simultaneously both the smartest and stupidest person she knew, honestly. </p><p>So Iris grabs a cloth and the antiseptic, then makes her way back to him. But it’s only when she steps right in front of Barry, and finds herself staring at the breadth of his chest that she discovers she can’t reach his forehead, not while he’s standing.</p><p>There’s an eight inch height difference between her and Barry, and the top of her head barely reaches the curve of his shoulders when they’re standing toe-to-toe like they are now. She’d have had a hard time trying to reach his forehead even in her usual high heels, Iris knows, and as she stands in front of him in their quiet apartment, in her bare feet, Iris sees just how impossible his forehead is for her to reach. </p><p>She leans back and looks up at him, and finds Barry’s looking down at her with something like studious wonder on his face - like how she sometimes finds him looking at his science books when he discovers something that both perplexes and amazes him - as if he too somehow forgot how short she really is compared to him.</p><p>“You’re too tall,” Iris informs him.</p><p>“It’s a little too late to lodge that complaint,” he tells her, his matter-of-fact voice not matching up with the mischievous glint in his eyes. “You should’ve put your height specifications in the suggestion box when I hit puberty. I could’ve been your tailor-made best friend.”</p><p>He means it as a joke, but sometimes, Iris thinks he really <i>was</i> tailor-made for her. Like her six-year-old self had sat down and written out a wish list of everything she could ever possibly want in a best friend and the universe had given her Barry Allen. Smart, kindhearted, funny Barry Allen who always made her laugh and married her just so she wouldn’t get kicked out of school.</p><p>Iris supposes, considering that it gave her a best friend that perfect, the universe could be forgiven for making him just a little too tall for her to properly reach.</p><p>“Besides,” he continues, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, “if I wasn’t <i>too tall,</i> who would you take to the library just to get all the books you want down off the high bookshelves for you? Or have get that particular coffee brand you’re so picky about down from off the top shelf at the grocery store? Or use to paint the high corners of the apartment walls when you do that thing where you just put some paint on your nose and only pretend to be helping?”</p><p>“You fall for me doing it every time.”</p><p>He flushes, “That’s besides the point.”</p><p>“Okay, okay. Fine. You are perfect, Barry Allen. And so is your ridiculous tallness. Happy now?”</p><p>He smiles, all goofy and smug and stupidly cute, “Absolutely.”</p><p>Iris rolls her eyes but she’s smiling too much for it to be effective. </p><p>“Sit for me,” she says, so he does, his lanky body folding down. </p><p>Iris sits down on the couch next to him, leaning over, cloth and antiseptic in hand, but the angle is all awkward, her hand making too many shadows for her to properly see, and the cushions keep shaking her as she’s trying to get an angle that will actually let her see what she’s doing. And when she looks down she sees it’s because Barry keeps bouncing his knees, full of relentless waves of energy, rattling the couch while she tries to work.</p><p>He’s impossible, really.</p><p>Iris lets out a frustrated huff and swings her left leg up over his lap, positioning herself so she’s kneeling right on the edge of the cushions while facing him, each one of her knees on either side of his.</p><p>Barry’s breath hitches, “Iris?”</p><p>And his legs finally, <i>finally</i> fall still against her, no longer irritatingly shaking now that she has him pinned into place. <i>Good.</i></p><p>“Shhh, Bear,” she orders absently, leaning down over him. “I can see much better this way.”</p><p>(And the outside of his thighs are pressed against the inner sides of her knees, and she’s still wearing his shirt like a dress, and it won’t dawn on her until much, much later that maybe she should have thought better of it, that maybe she’s washing away all their carefully drawn lines in the sand. But the thing is, she’s never been good with boundaries when it comes to Barry.</p><p>When you’re as close as they are, seen each and every one of each other’s scars, held your best friend in your arms as their emotions bled out, you forget about things like limits.)</p><p>And with careful, steady hands, Iris brings the cloth up to his bruise, but as soon as she touches it, Barry hisses, blowing his breath out between his teeth, and Iris retracts her hand almost immediately.</p><p>“Sorry,” she says. “Sorry. I’m doing it as gently as I can.”</p><p>“I know,” he tells her, “I trust you.”</p><p>And so she leans back down again, finishing the job as quickly and lightly as she can with gentle hands, murmuring apologies and soft assurances whenever she hears his sharp intakes of breaths.</p><p>(“It’s okay, Bear,” she keeps saying, one hand running over his hair, while her other holds the antiseptic. “It’s almost done.”)</p><p>And she hates the idea that she’s actually hurting him, hates that she can see him wince when she touches him, because he’s the last person on Earth that she’d ever want to hurt, and she’s not used to seeing him flinch away from her touch, not <i>hers</i>. But finally, she finishes, and Iris’ hands fall away, and his pain must subside with nothing touching it, because the tension in his face seems to ease as he opens his eyes. </p><p>And for the first time since they sat down, Iris bends her head to meet his gaze, and she finds it’s something like a new sensation, having to look <i>down</i> at Barry Allen, considering she spends so much of her time tilting her head so very far back to look <i>up</i> at him.</p><p>She used to be taller than him, once upon a time. But that was so very long ago, and dipping her head down to see him now doesn’t even feel like déjà vu, it feels like something completely new.</p><p>And now she can’t help but notice how his already impossibly long eyelashes look even <i>longer</i> when she’s above him and he’s looking up at her out from under them, and how they look so delicate too, like threads of silk and gossamer, the color of brown amber.</p><p>It’s ridiculous.</p><p>“Thank you,” Barry says, interrupting her scientific observations. “For the first-aid.”</p><p>Iris shrugs, “It’s nothing.”</p><p>“Hey,” he protests gently, “it’s not nothing. You didn’t have to do it.”</p><p>“Well, you know, <i>‘in sickness and in health.’</i>”</p><p>The age-old wedding vow slips out without Iris intending it to, and she freezes, her words hanging in the air between them.</p><p>Iris isn’t sure why she said it, why she even thought of it, why the ancient phrase would be so readily in her mind and right on the tip of her tongue. But though she didn’t mean to think it let alone say it out loud, she finds she really means it.</p><p>Their wedding may have meant nothing, their marriage may have been to save her education, but being there for Barry through both sickness and health is a vow she made in silence, back when she was a child, back on a starless night when Barry Allen laid his head in her lap and cried, and she had run her fingers through his hair, just like she did tonight, and thought, <i>I’ll never let you ever go through anything alone.</i></p><p>And the old memory of them on the couch together, of him lying against her and crying because the unimaginable had happened, is from so many years ago. And yet as they sit on this couch now, her watching over him once again, the recollection still feels too fresh, like she can still hear his shuddering intakes of breath and feel his tears wet the flannel fabric of her pajamas. And Iris wishes, just like she did then, that she could protect him from every single thing in the world that would ever even think of hurting him.</p><p>“Iris,” Barry says, his voice careful and low, “I - ”</p><p>But then he stops, must see in her eyes exactly what night she’s thinking of, looks like maybe he too is thinking of how the present is echoing their past, because he gives her a smile that’s small and sad.</p><p>“Come here,” he says softly.</p><p>And he opens his arms to her, and she falls into them.</p><p>This time, this time it’s <i>him</i> holding her on the couch as she cries. This time, he’s finally repaying a decade old debt.</p><p>He pulls her down so she’s sitting sideways in his lap, and she buries her face in the space between the curl of his collarbones and the curve of his neck and cries, because she’s been strong all day and kept it together, but now she feels like sobbing at the painful, throbbing reality that <i>she could have lost him</i>. And she presses her right hand flat against his chest, like she needs to feel the beat of his heart beneath the pads of her fingers in order for her to breathe.</p><p>(And he holds onto her tight through it all, because he’s just as bad as her, it seems, about where any boundaries between them lie.</p><p>Lines seem too hard to define when you’re trying to see them with blurry, tear-filled eyes.)  </p><p>The thought that he was running out of flames at the exact same time she might’ve been smiling or laughing and <i>not knowing</i> is haunting, that the worst could have happened and she could’ve been sitting in class, none the wiser. And Iris can still hear the passerby shouting that there was someone out on a stretcher, that people were in critical condition, and she can still feel like her heart’s being pulled apart at the mere idea it could’ve been Barry. </p><p>And Iris remembers the very brief splinter of time before Barry Allen came into her life. After her mother had died and the house had felt too quiet, like it was an empty cavern that could only echo with everything she didn’t have. And she remembers aching, like she knew her life wasn’t complete, like something was broken or missing but she didn’t know how to fix it.</p><p>And then Barry came, and it was like replacing quiet with music.</p><p>(And he wasn’t <i>just</i> one song or any single violin. </p><p>Barry Allen was like an entire symphony took over her world.) </p><p>And there’s only one thing Iris knows for certain:</p><p>She can’t lose her best friend.</p><p>She can’t <i>ever</i> lose him. </p><p>“Promise me I won’t lose you,” Iris says quietly, hand curving over his heartbeat.</p><p>She feels his hands tighten around her just for a minute, fingers pressed into her before they loosen, “What?”</p><p>She doesn’t blame him for his surprise, even she doesn’t know where this is coming from. Her and Barry know better than anyone how easy it is for the world to make you lose someone. </p><p>(It happens, in the blink of an eye, quick as a lightning strike. One moment you have a mother and the next you don’t. Mothers die and fathers go to jail. You inhale and your life changes while you exhale. The universe thinks everyone is expendable, no matter how much it breaks your heart.)</p><p>And Iris has never had a head full of fantasies. She’s a levelheaded girl with a solid right hook. She knows life is fragile and nothing is certain and no one can tell what the next moment brings, but, but, but...</p><p>She’ll trust everything will be okay, if Barry’s the one who tells her.</p><p>“If you promise I won’t lose you, I’ll believe you,” Iris says, leaning back to look at him. “You‘re always honest with me, Bear, so if you say it, I’ll know it’s true. I’ll <i>know</i> it.”</p><p>His eyes search hers, and she sees her exact desperation in her own eyes mirrored in his green ones, the kind of desperation that threatens to gnaw at everything you are. He’s just as desperate not to lose her, she realizes. Neither of them can imagine a world where one of them is without the other.</p><p>There are some things in life that would be too devastating to ever recover from.</p><p>Barry swallows hard, nods.</p><p>“I promise, Iris,” he says. “I’ll never do anything that could make you lose me.”</p><p>And she falls asleep listening to the reassuring melody of his heartbeat.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris is curled up asleep on his lap, and his arms are around her, and he can’t tell her.<p>He’s been stupid, Barry realizes. So stupid and blind. All this time he’s only been thinking that he‘ll love her in silence because he can’t bear to lose her if his love’s unrequited.</p><p>(Yes, he’s in love with her. He was lying when he said everything became fifty percent hers when they got married, because she’s always had one hundred percent of his heart. What he feels for her escapes definition, both embodies and eclipses romantic love. She’s his best friend, his anchor who held him together when his whole world went sideways, and he‘s terrified of everything beautiful between them breaking down around three little words.)</p><p>But Barry never once stopped to consider that <i>she</i> couldn't lose her best friend either, that she needed him as much as he needed her. And he can’t tell her he’s in love with her now, can’t put her in a position where she might have to make the choice to lose this closeness with him. He knows if he tells her, over ten years of well-known terrain would suddenly change and things couldn’t ever go back to being the same. So he made her a promise, and Barry always keeps his promises when it comes to Iris. </p><p>The thing is, though, if he makes sure she doesn’t lose him, then he’ll never get to keep her, not really, not like that. Both choices mean one of them chancing losing the other in some way.</p><p>And it’s another impossibility. Another inexplicable equation, a paradoxical improbability. </p><p>But, but, <i>but,</i> here’s the thing about Barry Allen:</p><p>He’s spent his life believing in impossible things.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Her earlier conversation with Lois Lane repeats over and over again in Iris’ dreams, looping around in her mind like it’s playing out in real time.<p>There was a Pulitzer Winner standing next to her, and chaos all around, but Iris’ eyes were on Barry - they just kept going to him, couldn’t focus on anything else. </p><p>“I know a story when I see one,” Lois had said. “And there’s definitely a story in the way you look at him.”</p><p>And Iris stared in stunned silence - a writer with no words for once.</p><p>“So, who is he?” Lois wanted to know. “Good friend? Boyfriend? Husband?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Lois raised an eyebrow, asked, “He’s all those things?”</p><p>And Iris...Iris had said:</p><p>“He’s <i>everything</i>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I) There was a buy-one-get-one-free sale on tropes this week apparently, because you got both Barry and Iris feeling hurt and giving/getting comfort. Two for the price of one. Or five for the price of one, if you count the three mini flashbacks. The trope is just too tempting.</p><p>II) I’ve been waiting three weeks to add Iris wearing Barry’s shirt, a trope I’m livid we haven’t seen on the show. And the “still beating” scene in the 1st episode where he places her hand over his heartbeat is a favorite of mine, and I really want to see it redone except this time where you can see her wedding ring prominently on her hand against his chest. Alas, the show has not given me that yet either so I wrote it into this fic myself. What we <i>have</i> seen is Lois on the show, but hopefully you were still surprised by her cameo.</p><p>III) If you’re new to this fic and commenting: Hi, I love you. If you’re a returning commenter: You guys are absolute angels and I’d probably name my first-born child after you except naming them ‘TropeLuvva15’ might get them teased in school. Unless they go to school with Elon Musk’s kid and then I guess they’d blend in. But, anyway, my point is: THANK YOU for commenting (and for leaving kudos). Those comments are what gives me the writing motivation to give you a new chapter each week. </p><p>IV) Westallen fans are the best fans and ily guys so come say hey on Twitter (@irisbestallen) or Tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com) if you wanna scream about what soft idiots Barry and Iris are. You can also subscribe to this fic to get notified when I post Chapter 4...which will feature a few of my top favorite tropes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. For Better or for Worse...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Iris can’t help but feel like something has been subtly shifting between her and Barry, like the familiar terrain they’ve been treading for over ten long years is ever so slowly altering right beneath their feet.</p><p>And now there are tiny little fleeting moments like these, moments where this new, uncertain energy fizzles between them, swift as quicksilver and bright as gold. And Iris...Iris doesn’t know quite what to make of it.</p><p>When, she wonders, did everything start feeling so complicated?</p><p>(And the little voice inside Iris’ head reminds her it was probably when she married him.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Iris and Barry walk to class in the cool autumn breeze, side by side beneath the canopy of red and gold trees, and neither say a thing. </p><p>Normally, Iris would be telling him all about the story her editor at the college paper gave her, or Barry’d be rambling on about a science fact, like zombie ants, but for the moment they are silent. And Iris keeps looking over, out of the corner of her eye, trying to steal small glances at him, only she must not be a very good thief, because he keeps catching her, as if he knows exactly what her eyes feel like when they’re on him. </p><p>(Or maybe, maybe it’s just that he’s been trying to sneak a glimpse of her at the exact same time she’s stealing a glance at him, and they both stand there red-handed, like two thieves in the night, caught by each other.)</p><p>And then Barry smiles at her, a little unsure, like he wishes he knew what she was thinking and Iris wishes she knew what to say.</p><p>(Why <i>doesn’t</i> she know what to say?)</p><p>She can’t help but wonder if something has been subtly shifting between them ever since the fire, like the familiar terrain they’ve been treading for over ten long years is ever so slowly altering. And it’s startling, like seeing the earth reforming and wildflowers growing right beneath her feet.</p><p>And it’s also sort of terrifying, like taking the same well-known path every day of her life and then waking up one morning and suddenly questioning it. Like she’s not sure if it’s somehow moved an inch to the right overnight or if it’s been slowly transforming for years, moving a millimeter at a time, and she’s just never noticed.</p><p>Or maybe, Iris thinks, maybe it hasn’t changed in any way, at all. Maybe it’s the exact same path looking the exact same way and she’s simply losing her mind.</p><p>She thinks...she thinks maybe she is.</p><p>(The thing is, it’s like the fire made Iris aware that losing Barry was an actual possibility. Which is a silly thing for her to realize, she thinks, when it’s always been reality. Iris knows all about worry and loss. That’s an unavoidable lesson you learn when your mother dies when you’re a baby and your father’s job is chasing after danger and your best friend’s mother gets murdered in the middle of the night and his father goes to jail for it.</p><p>Iris just never considered losing her best friend before. Her life has been so tightly intertwined with his for so many years that, in her head, him and her seemed to share the same heartbeat. </p><p>And she wants to hold onto him and to their friendship as tight as she can - hold it in her hand til it hurts - because she can’t ever lose him.</p><p>But now there are tiny, tiny little fleeting moments like these, moments where this new, uncertain energy fizzles between them, swift as quicksilver and bright as gold. And Iris...Iris doesn’t know quite what to make of it.)</p><p>A sudden gust of wind comes down the path, making the fallen leaves dance, and blowing Iris’ hair back, and she shivers, hunches her shoulders, and out of the corner of her eye (because, yes, she’s still watching) she sees Barry notice.</p><p>(He’s still watching her too, apparently.)</p><p>He stops, shrugs off his tan suede coat, those long, lean arms of his sliding easily out of the sleeves.</p><p>“Here,” he says, and then he steps behind her and slides his coat over her like a cape, and she can feel the heat of his hands lingering on her shoulders for just a heartbeat before they fall away.</p><p>And his coat over her blocks out the wind instantly, and the ends of the sleeves fall well past the tips of her fingers, and it’s still warm from the heat of his body, and she sinks into it, turns her head, looks back up at him.</p><p>“Thanks, Bear,” she says, meeting his gaze full on this time, letting it stay there and not skitter away.</p><p>“No problem,” he says, shrugging. “I can’t let my best friend turn into an icicle. Who else would I talk to?”</p><p>And then his eyes light up for a second, and Iris instinctively knows what’s running through his mind. </p><p>She grins, nudges the toe of his shoe with her own, “You want to start telling me facts about ice you learned in forensics class, don’t you?”</p><p>“I <i>do.</i> Do you know how many times ice comes up in crime scenes?”</p><p>“I’m assuming a lot when the crime scenes are in Alaska.”</p><p>“Okay, <i>fair</i>. But, really, it’s insane how many places ice crystals show up. Also, there’s tons of reasons why a sharp icicle may <i>appear</i> to be a flawless murder weapon, but can be quickly detected by crime scene investigators.”</p><p>“Please do not make a cold case joke.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m definitely going to make a cold case joke,” he says cheerfully, a wide, cheesy grin taking over his face. “But first, I gotta explain how stabbing makes it easy for CSIs to...”</p><p>So it’s seven-something in the morning and Iris is learning from her best friend how to (or, how to <i>not</i>) murder someone, and she’s teasing him, and he’s talking animatedly, and his eyes look impossibly bright green and they’re streaked with slivers of silver from the reflection of the overcast sky</p><p>And it all feels familiar. Easy. Like anything between them that might’ve been out of joint is realigning. Things between them were normal, she tells herself, she doesn’t need to worry about anything.</p><p>And Iris listens, grateful the silence is broken, and she slips her arms through the sleeves of his coat and clutches it closer as she walks. And when another gust of wind comes, she buries her nose in the collar, and breathes in the scent of his soap, the brand she gave him last year, the orange and cedar and cinnamon kind he liked so much he kept buying. </p><p>And she can’t help but remember how she’d originally bought the soap for her then-boyfriend, but ended up breaking up with him, and giving the bar to Barry instead.</p><p>The thing is, Iris realized later that it fit Barry better, anyway. That she’d intended to get it for her then-boyfriend, but the whole time she was shopping she must’ve some been subconsciously been remembering Barry’s likes instead. It was only after, when Barry mentioned how much he liked the scent, that Iris remembered how he was always excited about getting orange slices in his lunchbox when he was a kid, and how he’ll put cinnamon sticks in their cups of hot chocolate when he makes it.</p><p>It’s funny, what sort of things her subconscious holds onto without ever letting her fully know til later.</p><p>(Iris wonders if it’s holding onto anything now.</p><p>She supposes one day she’ll find out.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>“Are you feeling okay?” Barry hears Iris ask when she sees him pulling his red knitted sweater up over his undershirt before opening a window.<p>(Ever since the fire, Barry’s been finding her staring at him a little longer, standing just a little bit closer. And sometimes, he’ll glance up to see her looking like she’s trying to read him as closely as she proofreads one of her articles, looking for any errors, or any way to make it <i>better</i>. And Barry knows that Iris sometimes thinks he must not notice, but he <i>does</i>, he can’t help it. He’s been in love with her for so many years, he can’t help but feel the full weight of her gaze when she watches him.)</p><p>“I’m okay,” he tells her. “It just felt too hot in here.”</p><p>Her eyes go up to his forehead, focusing on where his skin still blooms black and blue, “The paramedic said you could get a fever if you got an infection from your bruise or had a reaction to the chemicals. I should probably check your temperature.”</p><p>(And Iris has that worried look in her eyes again, a look that doesn’t sit right with him, because he just wants to sooth the concern away, smooth out all her frown lines, doesn’t ever want himself to be the reason she worries.)</p><p>“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Barry says, before scrunching up his nose and adding, “I felt way worse after I tried that cigarette back in high school, to be honest.”</p><p>Iris lets out a laugh, looking instantly lighter at the memory.</p><p>“Right. Your rebellious phase that lasted all of five minutes.”</p><p>“You know me,” he says flatly. “Living for the danger.”</p><p>“That was the summer right after you first watched Grease, wasn’t it?”</p><p>He narrows his eyes at her, his lashes fluttering together as attempts to scowl, but somehow, this action only makes Iris grin even wider.</p><p>“Oh, it <i>was</i>, wasn’t it?” she asks, amusement alight in her eyes. “Your short-lived bad boy phase was inspired by a <i>musical</i>.”</p><p>He groans, flops down backward on the couch, covers his face with his hands and mumbles, “It was nominated for a Golden Globe.”</p><p>“Oh, well, that’s completely different then.”</p><p>Barry can’t see her face, but he <i>knows</i> she’s smiling, and he loves how her whole face lights up when she does, like she’s got sunshine laced in her smile, and he wants to see it, even if she’s teasing him, so slowly, he moves his hands down from his face to look at her as he says:</p><p>“I don’t think anyone with the name <i>Bartholomew</i> was meant to live the wild, bad boy lifestyle, to be honest.”</p><p>“You’re probably right,” Iris agrees. “It’s just a bit more bow tie than t-bird.”</p><p>He makes a face at her.</p><p>“Hey,” she protests. “I like bow ties.”</p><p>She did? Barry’s head tilts to the side in surprise as he files this away in the back of his mind, putting it in his infinite list of random facts about Iris. And he wonders what she likes about them, why he didn’t know before, what she’d think if he wore one.</p><p>He has no idea how to tie a bow tie, but he’d learn, for her, if that’s what she likes, and his mind is so preoccupied with wondering if they have any diagrams online to teach him how, that he doesn’t even notice Iris moving closer, still looking concerned.</p><p>Then, before he can even register what’s happening, Iris leans over the couch, over him, and dips her head down, pressing her lips against his forehead.</p><p>The touch of her lips is featherlight against his brow, barely there at all, but there nonetheless, and the tips of her long, dark hair fall against his chest. And Barry goes completely still, and it’s like his lungs forget to breathe, like his heart forgets how to beat, and all he can do is think <i>Iris, Iris, Iris</i>, his senses filled with nothing but her.</p><p>“What are you doing?” he finally manages to ask, and his voice comes out all quiet and choked and goes up at the end, like he’s not even sure of his own question. Like he can’t think when he’s too busy breathing in how her shampoo smells of citrus and cardamom and he feels like he could get drunk on her scent, because it’s <i>hers</i>, and everything about her is intoxicating.</p><p>“What I said I should do, checking to see if you have a temperature,” Iris tells him, her tone all matter-of-fact, and he can feel her lips moving against his forehead as she answers before she pulls back. </p><p>“I don’t think that’s scientifically accurate,” Barry says, because it sounds better than his first two thoughts which are <i>Please do it again,</i> and <i>Help, I’m so hopelessly in love with everything about you.</i></p><p>“Well, I’m supposed to check you for a fever, and we don’t have a thermometer, and this is how my dad used to check my temperature when I was a kid sometimes,” Iris says, shrugging, like this isn’t anything unusual, like she isn’t making him have a hummingbird heartbeat and forget to breathe. “You’re kind of warm.”</p><p>“It’s probably nothing,” Barry says quickly, because <i>of course</i> he’s warm, Iris just gave him a forehead-kiss-that-wasn’t-a-forehead-kiss. And his brain is such a chaotic mess of flashing red lights and warning signs screaming, <i>Don’t let Iris find out you’re stupidly in love with her!</i> that he starts to babble.</p><p>“I remember Joe used to do it, now that you mention it, but you probably can’t tell much just from touching your lips to someone’s forehead. In fact,” he continues, because he’s on a roll now, and he’s trying to hide his blush and he’s so nervous he’s finding it absolutely impossible to shut up, “Studies have shown that temperatures taken on the forehead can be inaccurate. Some select data finds that temperatures taken behind the ear, on the neck, and - ”</p><p>Iris rolls her eyes, suddenly leans down again without warning, and then Barry’s brain promptly short circuits, his thoughts fizzling out in a flurry of sparks before his mind goes blank.</p><p>Because Iris’ lips are behind the hard line of his jaw, on the curve of his neck, right against the beat of his pulse. And he shudders at the sudden softness of her, at the feel of the curl of her lips against his skin, and she only does it for the briefest of seconds, but it feels like all of time and space slows down when she does.</p><p>(Which is fine by him, because he could spend an eternity just like this.)</p><p>And then she pulls away.</p><p>“Alright, well, I don’t think that felt any warmer than your forehead, so you’re probably fine,” she tells him offhandedly, as she leans back. But then she frowns again, as if she’s thinking about something, brushes the hair off his forehead, and says, “Your pulse is going really fast, though.”</p><p>And he thinks:</p><p>
  <i>It always does that when I’m with you.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Not many things in life throw Iris off her guard.<p>She has a knife-sharp mind and a steely right hook, and there’s a type of toughness about her that her kind smile hides, a certain calculating sharpness glittering in her eyes.</p><p>She’s the girl who uncovered the story that Ronnie Raymond was the college arsonist, while everyone else was three steps behind, still staring at footage of a man in flames; and she’s the girl who slyly shut down an illegal racing ring over spring break using nothing but her wit and a recorder.</p><p>So, no, not many things in life throw Iris off her guard.</p><p>However, starting off her morning by seeing a still shower-wet Barry wearing nothing but a towel would be the exception.</p><p>(And Iris is thrown off her guard, utterly and completely, because she’s faced down deadlines and keep out signs and angry college paper editors, but she’s never, ever faced down anything like <i>this</i>.)</p><p>Barry stands in the hall outside the bathroom door, and his green eyes are wide in panic and surprise, and the ends of his long, feathery, wet lashes are pressed flat against his cheekbones. And his hair is messy, all shower-mussed and dyed a shade darker from the water, and he only has on a towel, tied low on his waist. </p><p>And Iris is a journalist in the making, being trained to notice the tiniest of details, or, at least that’s the reason she tells herself that she carefully catalogs the way he looks right now - how his skin is all smooth and slick from the shower, and how there are tiny beads of water that cling to the lean curl of his biceps before spreading out over the breadth of his chest and cascading down his muscle-toned stomach.</p><p>And Iris shakes her head, tells herself to stop making mental notes, to snap out of it, and she tries not to stare.</p><p>(She does stare, though. She finds herself fascinated by the way the flecks of water and his freckles intermingle all along his body, like both rain and stars falling across his skin.)</p><p>Barry shifts awkwardly on his bare feet, says, “I, uh, forgot to bring my change of clothes in with me.”</p><p>“Right,” Iris says. </p><p>(She remembers, idly, the year they were seventeen and Barry got into astronomy. They’d lie on the grass late at night, side by side, and Barry would point up at the dark velvet sky and explain the shapes made of stars. And when Iris couldn’t quite tell where the constellations ended or began, he’d wrap his fingers loosely around her wrist and help her trace the starlight.</p><p>She wonders now, if she connected the constellations of his freckles, what kind of shapes she’d find on him.  </p><p>And then she realizes what she’s thinking and feels her cheeks heating up, like she’s seventeen all over again and has just spotted her crush.)</p><p>“Um,” Barry brings a hand down, clutches the towel even tighter against his hipbones. “Sorry.”</p><p>“It happens.”</p><p>“I didn’t think you’d come out of your room.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Iris says, trying to sound casual and not knowing if it’s working. “It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before, right?”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>(Only not really, because she’s never seen Barry Allen in a towel with nothing underneath it. And now she knows <i>exactly</i> how water glistens across his skin and how there’s freckles that unfurl right above his left hip bone and now she just can’t...<i>unknow</i> it.)</p><p>And Iris both wants to stay and to turn and run, both close her eyes and keep them skimming over the length of him. Or maybe she just want to bang her head against the wall and see if it’ll knock some sense back into her brain and put words back into her mouth because she’s having a hard time thinking or speaking.</p><p>Barry is her best friend, and best friends don’t stare at each other like she’s staring at him. So she should stop, probably. Stop and get a grip.</p><p>When, Iris wonders, did everything start feeling so complicated?</p><p>(And the little voice inside her head reminds her it was probably when she married him.)</p><p>“I’ll, just...” Iris swallows, rips her gaze away from the slick, sharp edge of his collarbones. “I’ll just let you past.”</p><p>He flushes, and that’s even <i>worse</i>, because now Iris can see exactly how far down his body it goes, and how it looks as it lies over the pattern of his freckles. And Iris thinks that she may well and truly be going out of her mind, so she backs up out of the way, slides against the wall, pressing as close to it as she humanly can to let him pass. And when he does, there’s only a few inches between them and she can feel the heat that’s rolling off him and see the miniature constellations of his freckles up close.</p><p>(“That’s Orion,” she remembers Barry telling her, as he pointed up toward a star-filled patch of the sky. </p><p>“That’s indecipherable.”</p><p>“No, it really does make a silhouette. See?” and he’d helped her connect the dots in the sky as he guided her finger.)</p><p>And Iris thinks that this is the second time in her life he’s changed the way she looks at stars.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>When Barry Allen was six he met Iris West, and she had a laugh that sounded like a song and eyes that shined like they held flecks of starlight, and he remembers sitting in class, his feet swinging, too short for them to touch the floor, and the teacher was saying how astonishingly warm the sun was, and Barry had glanced over at Iris and thought surely, surely her smile could rival it, melt it down to liquid gold.<p>And he’d come home thinking, <i>Iris</i>, the word ringing in his ears and replaying in his head, like it was a ground-breaking discovery or a vow, a proclamation or a promise. He hadn’t known exactly what, but he knew, he <i>knew</i> it meant something.</p><p>(Iris and him, it seemed, always escaped definition.)</p><p>And then when his mother had tucked him into bed, he remembers leaning in close, like it was a secret that could only be whispered, and telling her, “I’m going to marry Iris West.”</p><p>And now, years and years and years later, Barry sits on the edge of his bed in the middle of the night and stares at his mother’s old photograph, knowing he’ll never see her looking a day older.</p><p>“Guess what, mom?” he tells her quietly. “I really did marry Iris West.”</p><p>He swallows, ducks his head, says, “It’s kind of a funny story, actually.”</p><p>(He just wishes it could have a happy ending.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris lies in bed and stares at the ring sitting on her bedside table, shining bright even in the shadows, like some sort of star in the dark.<p>When she first started wearing it, she’d forget that she had even put it on. She’d be doing something and the diamond would catch the light, and she’d see it sparkling out of the corner of her eye and look down mildly surprised like, <i>Oh, that’s right. This is new. This is mine.</i> </p><p>Only it’s not hers, not really. It’s only something that’s borrowed, a temporary loan.</p><p>Still, despite knowing that one day she’ll have to give it back, slipping it on has become second nature. And Iris wonders, briefly, how long the habit will take to unlearn. Wonders if, one day, muscle memory will make her reach for it on her dresser only to remember it’s not there, or if she’ll find herself looking down at her left hand and be surprised for a second at the fact that it’s bare. If she’ll miss the way the heat from her skin warms the cool silver and the way she can watch it glitter when she passes under the flicker of the streetlights at night.</p><p>And then as she lies there, a memory hits her - a very early childhood memory she’d completely forgotten about until now, of watching the ring sparkling on Nora Allen’s finger.</p><p>The memory is old, blurry in the middle and bright around the edges, but Iris can remember being seven and watching as Nora’s hand passed through a sunbeam streaming in through the Allen house shutters - remembers how the sunshine had hit the ring just right, and for a single mesmerizing second it sent rainbow reflections dancing around the room. And Iris had stared, captivated, and thought, <i>When I grow up, I want a ring just like that one.</i></p><p>Iris just never thought that she’d ever actually be wearing that exact ring. </p><p>(And it’s only then that she remembers what today is.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>It’s two o’clock in the morning, on the anniversary of the night Barry’s mom died.<p>And it’s storming.</p><p>It’s been awhile since it’s stormed on that exact date.</p><p>And Barry knows there’s no danger in the downpour, nothing hiding in the lightning that strikes across the sky, but the memories are overwhelming, gut-wrenching and breath-stealing, and he finds himself panicking. </p><p>He circles the living room and then paces the hall in his pajamas and bare feet, his breaths coming out all shallow and shaky like his heartbeats.</p><p><i>In,</i> he tells himself, taking a breath, <i>out</i>. In and out and in and out and - </p><p>But each breath brings back another memory of blood-stained carpet and rain-slicked streets, and before he knows it, he’s gasping for air, like he’s just been sucker-punched or shot into space with no suit on. And the images hit him all in succession like rapid thunderclaps booming in his brain: </p><p>A gust of wind and a wailing siren. Rolling thunder and yellow lightning. And running and running and running -</p><p>“Bear?”</p><p>The sound of Iris’ voice snaps Barry back, sending his memories dissipating like smoke. He blinks, swallows, turns to see Iris standing in her bedroom doorway, watching him with her kind, worried eyes.</p><p>“Hey, Iris,” he says, and he attempts to smile, tries to push the panic down, keep going like everything’s fine.</p><p>(Sometimes, it feels like the weight of the world’s on his shoulders, but as long as he can ignore it, if he can pretend he isn’t hurting from the burden and keep running as fast as he can, he can make himself believe that it’s all okay, that the heaviness of his memories isn’t crushing him.)</p><p>But Iris only looks at him like his smile’s made of cellophane and she can see right through it.</p><p>“Come here,” she says. “You’re not being alone right now, Barry. Come in with me tonight.”</p><p>It’s not really an invite, not the way she says it. It’s more like an instruction. But, still, he wants to say no, that he’s fine. Because him crawling into bed with her like it’s no big deal, like they really are the married couple they tell others they are, will just make him fall harder for what isn’t his, add more desperation for wanting what he can’t ever have. But the wood floor is so cold beneath his bare feet and his hands are shaking and he’s so full of anxiety, and he’s not thinking straight.</p><p>And she is holding out her hand to him now, just like she did on this night so many years ago, and Barry remembers taking it like a lifeline, like he knew that holding onto Iris West was the one single thing in the world that could keep him from drowning.</p><p>That’s exactly how he takes her hand now.</p><p>“Come on,” she murmurs, and she pulls him down to sit on her bed beside her, and he sits there for a minute, hands spasming against his knees, sides moving quickly from the erratic way he breathes, because it feels like he’s dying. Like he’s run too fast and is paying for it now, and his heart can’t slow down, it can only just <i>stop.</i></p><p>“Hey,” Iris says, trying to distract him from his panic, and dimly, he hears her voice over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears and the distant thunder outside. “Remember when I got my appendix out? And I was in pain and didn’t have the strength to stand outside and see the snow, and I thought I was never going to feel any better?” </p><p>He does. He takes a deep breath, makes himself focus on the memory.</p><p>It was winter and Iris couldn’t get out of bed, and not seeing her be able to smile had felt fundamentally <i>wrong</i>, like he went to a museum only to see all the paintings turned backwards.</p><p>“You remember what you did for me?” Iris asks softly. </p><p>He swallows, nods. He’d gone out late, during the first midnight snowfall, slipping his parka over his pajamas and sneaking out the door. And the sky was as dark as black velvet and the air was icy cold, and he’d stood there, catching spinning snowflakes in the air, trapping them in a jar like they were lightning bugs. And then he’d brought it back inside for her, just so she could have the snow.</p><p>(He remembers sneaking up into her room, showing her the jar, and Iris looking at him like he’d captured the stars instead of simply catching snow.</p><p>And his nose was pink and his fingers were frozen, but then she’d smiled, and it thawed him like the summer sun.)</p><p>“I thought I was never going to feel any better, but I <i>did</i>,” Iris says. “And you were the reason why. I know it hurts, but I’m here for you, okay? I’m here for you, Barry.”</p><p>And then Iris opens her arms, and he falls right into them, like she’s the only certain thing he knows, like he trusts her completely to catch him.</p><p>(And she <i>does</i>. She always, always does.)</p><p>And she is so small and he is so tall, and there’s about eight inches of height difference between them, so he scrunches up as much as he can, making himself as small as possible just to fit in her arms. And he curves into her hug, buries his face in her neck, and his arms curl around her because she’s he’s anchor and he’s afraid he’ll be washed away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.</p><p>(And this, this is proof of why it’s good he’s never told her, he thinks. Because he doesn’t know what he’d have done if she wasn’t here for him tonight, what he’d do if he was responsible for pushing his best friend away. And this is crossing enough lines already, blurring all the boundaries, and he already knows he’ll regret letting himself sleep here, in her bed, beside her, when the morning comes.</p><p>Because this feels too intimate, too much like there are no barriers between them when there are. It’s like he’s sailing his ship in the shallows, trying to make it to shore, and he knows that there are sharp, barrier rocks he can’t see hidden beneath the water, and he’s just desperately hoping he’s not steering wrong and runs into one that rips him apart.</p><p>But he’s panicking too much to think about that now.)</p><p>And the reflection of the steady rain against the windowpanes sends rhythmic shadows across the room, and Iris holds him in the darkness, one of her hands pressed against his spine, the other on the back of his head, her fingers threading through his hair.</p><p>And eventually he calms in the sanctuary only she can give him.</p><p>“Sleep,” she says softly, “I’ll keep you safe.”</p><p>And she will. He has complete faith that she will.</p><p>He remembers with perfect clarity, this devastating night from so many years ago, when he walked into the West house, and Iris suddenly appeared from above, up at the top of the stairs, the glow of lights behind her. And she was wearing her white bathrobe and her natural curls were around her like a halo, and she had reached down for him, holding her hand out and bringing the light with her, looking like some kind of angel.</p><p>Iris has always been his saving grace.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>When Iris wakes up, Barry’s not in her bed.<p>(That sentence shouldn’t be surprising, shouldn’t be such a thing she so easily thinks, yet it is. </p><p>Maybe one day she’ll notice.)</p><p>She fell asleep holding him, as if she could protect him even from memories of what’s already happened, and now he’s gone, so Iris gets up, going to look for him.</p><p>And when Iris peeks into the kitchen, she finds Barry cooking.</p><p>The sight makes her fall still in her steps, and she stands there under the arch of the kitchen doorway, completely frozen, like she’s a ballerina in a music box and the wind-up melody’s suddenly stopped.</p><p>And she’s not sure what makes her watch him, why she can’t look away. But she doesn’t move, stays halfway in the doorway, taking everything in.</p><p>There are pancakes already on the table, and Barry is cooking bacon, and his hair is sticking out in different directions, still mussed from sleep, and without it’s usual gel, his hair looks softer, somehow, like feather-down. And he’s standing in front of the stove, too busy cooking to notice her, and he’s humming something low, a tune under his breath that Iris can’t quite catch, but sounds simple and slow, like some kind of music box melody she heard once long ago.</p><p>And pale, golden beams of morning sunshine stream in through the lines of the half-opened blinds, sending patterns across the tile floor, and Iris thinks something about what she’s seeing doesn’t feel fully like reality, or like it belongs to her. It’s like a scene from some sort of movie she once saw, or like she’s looking at a long-forgotten memory captured on some old Polaroid photo, tinted in sepia and faded with time. </p><p>Or maybe, maybe it doesn’t look like an old movie scene or a moment caught on photo at all. Maybe it’s more like she woke up in an alternate reality. Like there’s some sort of bend in the cosmos, a tiny little second where universes overlap, and she slipped in the space in-between, like stepping through a sunbeam. And when she walked through the kitchen door, it took her to some other Earth, in some other Iris’ home, where her and Barry are married - really, actually, properly married - and there’s nothing unusual about her husband cooking breakfast for her. </p><p>But she’s not in an alternate reality. She’s on her Earth and in her kitchen, and her and Barry are legally married and she got up because he wasn’t sleeping in bed beside her.</p><p>And it’s not like that, not at all, and yet those are all solid facts. And it makes her heart thud and her head spin and makes her feel like she isn’t sure of what is or isn’t real anymore, sort of like those placebos Barry had been talking about, those studies with the real and fake pills - only it’s like someone’s dropped the bottle or ripped off the labels and suddenly Iris isn’t so sure which one she’s holding anymore.</p><p>So Iris stands there, listening to strips of bacon sizzling and eggshells splitting against the edge of the pan, and the sound of Barry’s voice as he cooks. And then he reaches up, turning off the stove light, his shirt coming up when he stretches, and his grey sweatpants lie so low on his hips that Iris catches a flash of his stomach. </p><p>And the sight snaps her out of her thoughts, makes her shake her head and take another step.</p><p>She swallows, tests her voice, “Barry?”</p><p>He startles at the sound, spinning around, and they stare at each other for a second, like they’re both surprised to see each other.</p><p>Which is ridiculous, since they’re best friends, and they both live here.</p><p>But there seems to be something in the air, something at odds with the lazy sunbeams and the easy morning melodies being sung by the birds outside, like the both of them are holding their breath and waiting for the other shoe to drop.</p><p>And it makes something constrict in Iris’ chest, because she doesn’t like these moments when there’s uncertainty between them, doesn’t like the way he looks like he’s trying to figure out what to say instead of just <i>saying</i> it. Moments like these make her head spin, because Barry’s her friend, her <i>best</i> friend, and awkwardness doesn’t belong between them.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, finally breaking the silence. “Sorry about last night.”</p><p>“What? Barry - ”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have - ” he trails off, doesn’t look like he knows how to finish his sentence. “I know we’re not -  and I was in - ”</p><p>But he can’t seem to finish that sentence either, and he looks so scared for a second, his fawn-like eyes wide and his hands gesturing in the air, as if they can convey all the apologies he wants to say. </p><p>But Iris doesn’t want to hear them, stops him instead, her hands reaching out to catch his forearms, stopping him mid-gesture.</p><p>(Barry, she remembers belatedly, was always more mindful of boundaries than her. As blind to them as he could be, she was worse. And apparently he thought he was guilty of crossing a line.)</p><p>“Hey, look at me,” she says, and he does, his uncertain green eyes meeting her gaze. “Don’t apologize, not to me, not for that. I couldn’t stand it if you felt awkward or guilty with me. I’m your best friend. We’re Barry and Iris. I’m always going to be here for you, okay? <i>Always</i>.”</p><p><i>For better or for worse</i>, she finds herself thinking. <i>For richer or poorer.</i></p><p>She doesn’t say it though.</p><p>(She wonders if he’s thinking about the same vow too, and just neither are daring to say it out loud.)</p><p>And they stand there for a second in the middle of the kitchen, in silence, her holding onto him, and him holding his breath, until, finally, he nods, and Iris smiles, letting him go, her hands falling away.</p><p>“I will accept the breakfast though,” she says lightly, glancing at the stack of pancakes he’s made. “Chocolate chip?”</p><p>“Is there any other kind I’d make for you?”</p><p>“It definitely beats burnt toast.”</p><p>An amused look crosses Barry’s face, “Iris, you know the toaster - ”</p><p>“Has it in for me.”</p><p>“...Right. Has it in for you,” he agrees.</p><p>Iris tears off a piece from a pancake, pops it in her mouth, enjoys the way the chocolate chips melt down smooth on her tongue, “I should have you cook for me more often. Might be nice to have you be my personal chef.”</p><p>Barry ducks his head, breathes out a laugh, lightness overtaking the tension, his laughter filling the space between them.</p><p>And just like that, they’re back in easy rhythm.</p><p>(They’re like something the cosmos wants to work in perfect understanding, like the tide and the moon. The Earth will always spin and stars will always shine and Iris and Barry will always fall back into place together.)</p><p>“Well,” he says, “it’s not as fancy as making a banana for breakfast, but...”</p><p>She gasps, smacks his arm, <i>“Shut up.”</i></p><p>“Hey,” Barry protests, putting his hands up in defense. “It was a good banana!”</p><p>Her eyebrows go up.</p><p>“It was!” he insists, his green eyes all honest and wide. “It was a good breakfast! And I didn’t get low blood sugar and pass out in the middle of crossing the street and widow you, so...” </p><p>She rolls her eyes, shoves him, lets her hand linger a little longer on his shoulder than normal.</p><p>(And neither of them mention it.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>It’s afternoon when Barry walks Iris to the campus newsroom, and her arm’s loosely looped through his, brushing against his side as they walk.<p>“I’ll be back home in time for dinner,” she tells him.</p><p>(For a second, it all feels so domestic it makes his head spin. It shouldn’t, though. They have walked like this, arm in arm, for most of their lives. It’s never been uncommon for her to lead him by the hand or for him to walk with his arm around her, draped lightly over the slope of her shoulders. And they’ve certainly eaten more dinners together than they ever have alone. So there’s no reason it should feel any different.</p><p>Then again, there never was a diamond on her finger before.)</p><p>“Iris, it’s fine,” he assures her, because he doesn’t want her to feel the need to be concerned. “Stay later if you need to. There shouldn’t be a repeat of what happened last night.”</p><p>“Oh, no, I was just telling you that to make sure you had dinner ready for me when I got back.”</p><p>He throws his head back and lets out a laugh. He knows that’s not why she told him that at all, but he also knows he’s going to cook her dinner, anyway.</p><p>Being with her just makes him want to do things like that. </p><p>(It just doesn’t seem like something he’d choose <i>not</i> to do. It kind of throws him, when Iris questions why he’d do something, when the bigger question in his head is why he wouldn’t. Why <i>wouldn’t</i> he make her dinner? Why <i>wouldn’t</i> he start brewing her coffee to give her five more minutes to sleep in, or always remember to put a cinnamon stick in her mug of hot chocolate when he fixes it, because it makes her smile? Those things all seem so little when he’d find a way to pluck the moon down out of the midnight sky if only she’d asked him to.)</p><p>They reach the newsroom door, and Iris presses her palm against the glass, but instead of pushing it open, she turns back, looks at him like she’s remembering the night before.</p><p>“You’re not Atlas, Barry,” Iris tells him. “No matter how many times it may seem like it, your life’s not a Greek tragedy. You don’t have to try to hold the whole world up.”</p><p>He looks at her, a slight smile on his face, and he can’t help the soft exhale of laughter he lets out.</p><p>She tilts her head, studying him, “What?”</p><p>“It’s just funny,” he says, “that you’d ever compare me to Atlas when <i>you</i> have always been the one holding my world up.”</p><p>Iris stares at him for a second, her dark, glittering eyes searching his, and then she smiles.</p><p>(And Barry thinks she must be shattering every known and unknown law of the universe when she looks at him and smiles like <i>that</i>, because being that staggeringly beautiful shouldn’t even be possible.)</p><p>She laughs, shakes her head, says, “You really are my favorite person, you know that?”</p><p>“I kind of figured that out when you didn’t ditch me in high school,” he tells her, his lips quirked up in a one-sided smile. “But the feeling’s mutual, you're my favorite person too, Iris.”</p><p>“I’d better be,” she says, “I picked you up from all those high school nerd clubs.”</p><p>“Hey,” he protests jokingly. “The science club and the quiz team may have been one thing, but astronomy club wasn’t <i>that</i> bad. I thought you liked the stars.”</p><p>Iris’ eyes widen slightly, and she looks sort of flustered, like he’s said something to surprise her, but when Barry runs his words back through his head, he can’t figure out what.</p><p>(He remembers when he was seventeen and joined the astronomy club and Iris and him spent their nights lying on the lawn and tracing patterns in the air above their heads, like the connect-the-dots they’d do together when they were kids, only with starlight and a smooth satin sky.</p><p>He thought Iris had liked it too. Maybe he’d been wrong.)</p><p>But then her eyes flick over him, for just the slightest second, like the movement’s involuntary, like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. And then she says:</p><p>“Yeah, the stars are kind of cute.”</p><p>His eyebrows go up, “Cute?”</p><p>“Objectively speaking.”</p><p>“Stars are billions of years old,” Barry protests in confusion at her chose of words. “And so many lightyears away, that some starlight doesn’t even reach our eyes until thousands of decades later, like we’re seeing star-shine from far before we were ever born. They’re a bit more than ‘cute.’ Looking at the sky is the closest we can get to time traveling, when - ”</p><p>“You’re such a nerd,” Iris informs him, and she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.</p><p>And then she stands up on her tiptoes and places a kiss right on the edge of his cheekbone.</p><p>(Barry smiles like a lovestruck idiot the whole way home.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Here’s something Iris is finding out about being married to Barry:<p>It’s not hard to pretend to be in love him.</p><p>It’s the opposite of hard, in fact. It’s <i>easy</i>. He makes it so, so easy to pretend she’s in love with him. Easy to pretend she always kisses her husband goodbye. Easy to pretend she’s running home to him. Easy to pretend they’re married for real.</p><p>(And it’s only later, when Iris is talking to her editor, and staring at her article in the paper with the words <i>Iris West-Allen</i> in bold font on the byline, that out of nowhere, Iris remembers her psychology professor once telling her:</p><p><i>In the end, we all become what we pretend to be.</i>)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I) I slipped a subtle storyline in about their soap/shampoo, but couldn’t really expand on it, since Barry and Iris are unreliable narrators who are too oblivious to their feelings to realize exactly what they’re doing, so in case you missed it:</p><p>As mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, Iris bought orange and cinnamon soap for her then-boyfriend because she was subconsciously thinking of things <i>Barry</i> likes. Iris then ends up giving Barry the soap instead. Barry likes it, a tiny bit because of the reasons Iris thinks, but mostly because <i>it smells like her</i> who’s shampoo (as established in the forehead kiss scene) smells like citrus and cardamom. Orange is obviously citrus, and cardamom is very close to cinnamon and often used as a substitute. And in the next to last scene, Barry briefly mentions that the reason he even puts cinnamon sticks in their hot chocolate is because he thinks <i>Iris</i> likes it. So, basically, it comes full circle and these idiots both like those scents because <i>it makes them both think of each other.</i></p><p>II) The Atlas exchange was inspired by Iris’ Season 2 line, “Here’s the thing about Barry: He has a bad habit of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.” I had to add the extra Atlas imagery, because Iris is absolutely Barry’s Atlas who holds up his whole world. I also couldn’t resist adding the snow and stargazing flashbacks. I’m seriously thinking about making a series of vignettes just about westallen as kids/teens later if anyone’s interested, because you know they were the cutest things. Also: Now that I don’t have to worry about spoilers/you guessing what happens in the first four chapters, I’ve named the chapter titles after wedding vows. </p><p>III) We’re getting close to the end! If you don’t want to miss the upcoming grand finale, you can subscribe to this fic or to my Ao3 account (which is entirely made up of westallen fics) to make sure you’re notified when the next chapter goes up. Also: Are you guys going to be too busy to read over the next two weeks, and I should skip posting, or will you be reading if I go ahead and post?</p><p>IV) If you enjoyed reading this, drop me kudos or a comment? Also: Return commenters, I love you and want to throw an obnoxious amount of heart emojis at you: 💖❤️💜💖❤️💜 Y’all are the mvps and why I’m motivated to write a new chapter every week.</p><p>V) I’m going to be working hard to make sure I deliver on the final part of the story, but when I’m taking a break, you can find me on Twitter (@irisbestallen) or Tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com), so come say hi if you want to fangirl with me about how Barry and Iris are the gold standard of both cuteness and stupidity.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. For Richer or Poorer...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Iris doesn’t want to see this casual ease and intimacy her and Barry have spent over a decade building up suddenly crumble down into dust.</p><p>Rome wasn’t built in a day, she knows, but it burned in one.</p><p>And it seems like her and Barry keep playing with fire, accidentally igniting little flames again and again and again, and she doesn’t want their friendship to be ancient ruins in the history of them.</p><p>(The problem is, now that she knows what it’s like to wear his ring, Iris isn’t so sure she’ll ever be able to give it back, and that thought is just as dangerous as striking a match.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barry’s something of a contradiction, always has been. He believes the impossible is real, when by definition it isn’t, and is a man of science as much as he’s a romantic at heart.</p><p>He’s someone who can tell you all about chemical reactions, how there’s a scientific basis for every emotion you have, even for falling in love, because there’s nothing magical to do with how you feel about another person, it’s just basic biology.</p><p>But Barry will also tell you that he forgets all that the second Iris smiles.</p><p>(He really does. He sees a flash of her smile and it’s like a myriad of stars all bursting in his head, like every scientific fact he’s ever known goes up in smoke and silver dust. And his mind is blank except for the incessant refrain of: <i>That cannot be science.</i>)</p><p>He also loves his best friend, but can’t ever let her know <i>because</i> he loves her, and he can’t jeopardize the best thing about both of their lives.</p><p>So, perhaps, that series of contradictions explains why Barry’s putting together a systematic twelve step plan about how not to let one little emotion ruin everything.</p><p>(Step One is fairly simple. Or, at least it should be. It’s: Don't do anything stupid.</p><p>He just doesn’t expect his plan to get tested the second he gets home.)</p><p>Barry turns his copper key in the lock, walks in through his apartment door, tosses his backpack on the floor, and like nearly every other time, he holds his tongue and resists the urge to shout, <i>Hi, honey, I’m home.</i></p><p>(He doesn’t say it because he’s not sure Iris would get the reference and know he only means it as a joke.</p><p>He’s also not sure he’d be joking.</p><p>And that wouldn’t be very good for his brilliant scientific plan about not being stupid.)</p><p>Iris pops her head around the corner, curls bouncing off her shoulders at the movement, and Barry tries to shake the happy way his heartbeat still elevates at the idea that he gets to come home to her.</p><p>(He’s lost count of how many times he’s walked in through this door to see her, but he knows it’s a lot.</p><p>He also knows it still somehow feels brand new.)</p><p>“Hey, Iris,” he says, shrugging off his jacket and trying not to smile, because only lovesick idiots who weren’t following their not-acting-in-love plan smiled at their fake wives like that.</p><p>“Hi,” Iris says brightly, and it’s just one word — one single word — but it makes warning bells ring out loudly in his mind because the problem with knowing Iris so well is...</p><p>He knows her so well.</p><p>(If there’s such a thing as Spidey Sense, then Barry’s sure he has Iris Sense.)</p><p>“What’s wrong?” he asks instantly, and he looks behind her, toward the kitchen, half expecting to see smoke wafting out of it again. </p><p>(The toaster, as has Iris pointed out, really does seem to attack her.</p><p>Of course, it was also probably acting in self defense.)</p><p>“Stop looking at the kitchen like that, Bartholomew.”</p><p>“Sorry,” he says, looking back at her. “But really, what’s wrong?”</p><p>“Remember that one year you were obsessed with Loch Ness?” Iris asks, “That body of water in Scotland with it’s own monster?”</p><p>Barry’s brows knit together for a second at the sudden change in subject, but then he finds himself smiling as he asks, “You remember that?” </p><p>(He’d nearly forgotten all about it himself. He was twelve years-old and searching for the impossible, for any kind of sign that the incredible existed out there in the world.</p><p>And what he’d settled on was the Loch Ness monster, hidden away in Scotland, in the highlands, under dark water.</p><p>Funny, how he ever thought he’d have to look that far, when the incredible was always right next to him in the form of his best friend.)</p><p>“Of course I remember,” Iris says dismissively, as if it isn’t any big deal that she remembers something he was interested in one July so many long summers ago. “Remember how you said that you’d love to see it in person?”</p><p>“I guess?”</p><p>“Well,” Iris says, and she squints, sort of winces, like she hates to be the one to have to say what comes next, “now it’s in your bedroom.”</p><p>
  <i>“What?”</i>
</p><p>Barry runs, his long legs letting him disappear down the hall in a flash, and when he reaches his doorway, he sees that the corner of his ceiling has leaked, turning his wall into a waterfall that pools down onto his bed and soaks his sheets before dripping down to a watery mess on the floor. </p><p>He needs to call someone he thinks, pulling his cellphone out in a daze. Call the college. Or their insurance place. Or divers, maybe, because there’s a pencil floating around like a yellow submarine in the newly made lake on his floor.</p><p>“I already called the college housing department,” Iris says, coming up behind him and peering around his shoulder. “They managed to shut off the leak, but they said they can’t get a restoration crew in here for another week.”</p><p>“Another week?” Barry repeats in disbelief. “But it’s my bedroom. Did you tell them it was important we get my bedroom back?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What?” Barry looks over his shoulder. “Why not?”</p><p>Iris doesn’t answer, just stares at him instead, looking unimpressed, and Barry shifts nervously, scrunching up his face.</p><p>(He hasn’t floundered this much for an answer since he fell asleep in physics class and only woke up when Professor Garrick was asking him a question.</p><p>Barry’d gotten the answer right, saved himself at the last minute.</p><p>He’s not sure that’s going to happen here.)</p><p>“I didn’t tell them you needed <i>your</i> bedroom back,” Iris finally says, looking torn between annoyance and amusement, “because the only reason they even gave us this apartment in the first place is because we claimed we were <i>married</i>, husband.”</p><p>“Oh. <i>Oh!</i>”</p><p>And then his fingers — being the treacherous, traitorous things that they are — drop his phone, and he scrambles for it, fumbling for a minute before he catches it against his jeans with clumsy hands.</p><p>“I’ve never been married before, of course,” Iris says, in that tone of fond teasing he knows so well. “But I’m pretty sure that’s how it works,”</p><p>And because he’s Barry and he hasn’t ever been able to resist teasing her back when her voice sounds like <i>that</i>, he goes, “Yeah, well, you can’t believe everything you see on tv.”</p><p>“That’s true.”</p><p>And just when he finally thinks he has his phone and his senses back in his grip, Iris says:</p><p>“But I guess you really will be sleeping with me, after all.”</p><p>And Barry nearly drops his phone all over again, and he goes, very lucidly and not at all high pitched:</p><p>
  <i>“What?”</i>
</p><p>Iris shrugs, like it’s an easy assumption.</p><p>“Well, you can’t sleep in here,” Iris says, inclining her head toward the mini swamp on his bed. “You’re not aquatic.”</p><p>Barry racks his brain for an idea, goes, “There’s the couch.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iris says, rolling her eyes, like he’s just suggested something stupid. “The couch is too short. It’s more like a loveseat, anyway.”</p><p>(It <i>was</i> short. Iris could barely lie down flat on it and fit comfortably, and she was absolutely tiny compared to him. </p><p>Also, Barry, who has no interior design knowledge whatsoever, is just now finding out that him and Iris have been spending all this time together sitting on what was apparently called a <i>loveseat</i>, and <i>fantastic</i>, now even furniture names are making him flustered.)</p><p>“I’ll live,” Barry says finally.</p><p>“You won’t if you whine about how much your neck aches while I’m trying to work on my article this week,” Iris informs him. “It’s the exposé, remember? The investigative piece that could be my big break?”</p><p>(That was right. Iris was investigating a story — a story that was slowly morphing into the biggest thing she’s ever done. It’d started off as a simple college newspaper assignment, but the more Iris researched, the more things didn’t add up, and Barry had woken up at three o’clock one morning to find Iris sitting in the darkness, still awake, her laptop screen illuminating her face.</p><p>“Barry,” she’d said excitedly, eyes sparkling with victorious adrenaline, like she’d just leapt off a building and floated down unharmed, “I think I uncovered something big, I just need to find proof.”</p><p>And his eyes were all blurry and he was barely awake and not really sure what was going on, all he knew was that Iris was smiling, and how could he not support anything that made her do that?)</p><p>“It’s ridiculous for you to have to sleep on a too small couch or on a hard floor when we know my bed’s big enough for the two of us. We both fit just fine when you came in with me that one bad night,” Iris points out, bringing him back to the present. “Besides, it’s not like it’s anything we haven’t done before.”</p><p>
  <i>It’s not like it’s anything we haven’t done before.</i>
</p><p>Well, yes, but also <i>no,</i> not at all. Because this time...this time it wouldn’t be on the anniversary of his mother’s death. This time, there would be no nerve-racking panic attack, no sound of rain against the window pane or of raging thunder. No overwhelming anxiety to make the once in a lifetime situation somehow seem <i>okay</i> or grief dulling his senses or lightning flashing across the sky to distract him from how intimate lying there next to her felt.</p><p>It would just be him and her and the paradox of the distance between them being simultaneously as big as a canyon and as small as a sliver. So close and yet so far from everything he’s ever wanted. A heartbeat away and yet just out of reach. </p><p>And he knows they’re both dancing too close to the edge yet again, coming painfully close to the line in-between them.</p><p>“No,” Barry echoes, “not like it’s anything we haven’t done before.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>It’s sometime after midnight, and there’s a crescent moon up in the sky, curved just like the Cheshire Cat’s smile, bright white and illuminating the night.<p>And, for once, the entire campus is quiet. There’s no sound of feet on the pavement or of parties in the distance, there’s only silence, like the world is fast asleep.</p><p>Except Iris isn’t. She’s wide awake.</p><p>She lies in her bed, on her left side, staring at the pattern of shadows on the wall. And lying behind her, on the other side of her bed, is Barry, and their backs are to each other and the only reason she even knows he’s still there is because of the tension that fills the air.</p><p>She hadn’t thought anything of it when she’d said he should sleep in her bed. The solution seemed obvious, and besides, they were lifelong best friends, and he — in a funny little twist of fate — was actually, legally, her husband. </p><p>But now that he’s beside her, Iris is starting to think she forgot to calculate all the little things. Like the slight dip in the mattress from the weight of his body, and the way she can feel the sheets sliding over her skin when he moves. And she thinks he’s all too aware of her too, because even though there’s several inches between them, though he’s not talking or moving, and there’s nothing revealing in the way he breathes, Iris knows he’s awake.</p><p>She’s not sure how she knows, exactly, just that she does. Sometimes, it feels like she’s so in tune with him it’s as if they’re connected, as if she could inhale a breath and he’d exhale it.</p><p>But here they are now, under the covers, counting their heartbeats that sound far too loud in the silence. </p><p>They’ve fallen asleep together before, with no discernible space between them, nor uncertainty, so she doesn’t know why the universe feels the need to take away that ease.</p><p>(Iris remembers Barry getting growing pains in junior high, his limbs getting too long too fast and his leg muscles aching and him trying to curl his brand new, too-tall body up on the couch, looking miserable. </p><p>“Serves you right for getting taller than me,” she’d told him fondly.</p><p>And he’d let out a noise that sounded perilously close to a puppy’s whine, and she’d rolled her eyes and gently lowered herself down on the couch next to him. And he’d sunk into her side, like some sort of uncoordinated, gangly Great Dane puppy who hadn’t quite grown into his long legs yet.</p><p>“Warmth helps,” he’d muttered into her shoulder, already half asleep, and she’d ruffled his hair, staying there until he woke up.)</p><p>And Iris can’t stand how stiff they are now — how their shoulders are rigid, how they’re lying right on the edge of two separate sides of the bed because they’d rather risk tipping over than be another inch closer. It’s <i>wrong.</i> They were Iris and Barry, the best of best friends, the two people on Earth who would always understand each other, two people who were so close even tension couldn’t fit between them.</p><p>Or, at least she used to think so.</p><p>“Barry?” Iris whispers, saying his name softly, lightly, under her breath, like it’s some sort of secret, and she doesn’t quite know why she says it like that, but maybe it has something to do with the pale moonlight and uncertainty that’s filling the room floor to ceiling. “You awake?”</p><p>“No,” he answers. “Are you?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Silence stretches out between them again, and then, because Iris hates the awkwardness, her memories keep taking her back in time to moments where it didn’t exist. And she speaks again, says:</p><p>“Remember that other night we couldn’t sleep?”</p><p>And there are many, many nights they couldn’t sleep, nights they spent talking, nights they never closed their eyes and watched as the deep blue sky faded into a pale yellow and lavender dawn.</p><p>But Iris is thinking about one night in particular, one single night out of hundreds.</p><p>She doesn’t even think of clarifying things for Barry. Somehow, she knows, he’ll know the exact night she’s talking about.</p><p>And he does.</p><p>“That one August,” she hears him say. “During the heatwave.”</p><p>(When he smiles, she can <i>feel</i> it.)</p><p>“We snuck outside,” he continues, his voice low. “Stayed out all night in the backyard.”</p><p>“And the sky was filled with fireflies.”</p><p>(It really was — there were dozens and dozens of flickering fireflies, lighting up the night. They’d looked like shooting stars in the air, all shimmering and golden and bright, surrounding Iris and Barry with tiny little pinpricks of light.</p><p>And Barry’d sat down in their hammock, pulled Iris down next to him, and fireflies had wound around them in luminous, lazy spirals. And one had landed on Barry, making him incandescent for just a second, like he was lit up by lightning, and Iris remembers thinking that the light looked <i>right</i> on him, somehow, like she’d always known he had a heart of gold and something glowing in his soul and she could finally physically see it.</p><p>They’d stayed out there in the hammock, Barry’s feet swinging sleepily in the summer air, and Iris drifting off beside him. And the last thing she remembers before she fell asleep and her memory faded into black, is that a firefly had streaked across the sky above them like a shooting star, and she’d turned her head, said:</p><p>“Make a wish, Bear.”)</p><p>Now Iris glances back, out of the corner of her eye, as if she tries hard enough, she can see Barry behind her. But she can’t, and for some reason, she doesn’t dare turn her head.</p><p>“Did you ever make a wish?” she asks.</p><p>There’s silence in the darkness, then:</p><p>“No.”</p><p>And his answer comes just a little too slow, and his voice sounds just a fraction too heavy, and Iris thinks he might be lying, though she doesn’t know why he would.</p><p>(Then again, she hasn’t been very good at telling what’s a lie and what’s not lately.</p><p>She thinks maybe Barry’s a bad influence, because she never used to lie awake and think of things like placebos before, about the difference between real and fake, but she does now.)</p><p>“What about you?” he asks. “Did you ever make a wish?”</p><p>Iris frowns, sifts through her memory, but keeps coming up blank. All she remembers is sinking into Barry’s side, staring up at the sky, and trying to come up with something. She doesn’t think she ever did.</p><p>“No,” she says, a bit surprised at the realization, “I don’t think so.”</p><p>“Some pair of best friends we are.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Iris says into the night. “Some pair.”</p><p>(And one day she’ll understand that she didn’t feel the need to wish for anything because everything she wanted already had his arm around her.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div><i>Did you ever make a wish?</i><p>Barry lies in Iris’ bed, her words echoing around and around in his head.</p><p>And here’s what he remembers:</p><p>A summer sky streaked with silver starlight and a lightning bug landing on him, and Iris laughing at the sight. And how he was looking up at her outlined by the lightning bug’s shine, and his breath was catching beneath his breastbone, like his heart could stop from the sight of her alone, because it looked like every bit of light in the world all radiated from <i>her</i>.</p><p>(But then, that’s how she’s always looked to him, like she was luminous, like she glowed like nothing else in the universe.)</p><p>And he remembers the swaying hammock suspended in the air, and Iris yawning, and him shifting automatically, moving with unconscious instinct, so she could rest her head comfortably against his shoulder. And then a single lightning bug passed overhead, quick as a shooting star, and she’d looked up and whispered, “Make a wish, Bear.”</p><p>And she’d only been joking, and Barry had always been too scientific to put much stock in wishes, but he still closed his eyes...</p><p>And wished that one day he’d be brave enough to tell her everything she was to him.</p><p>(He thinks that wishing might just be the one impossible thing he never really did believe in.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>When Iris opens her eyes, the sight in front of her takes a second to register.<p>And then she freezes.</p><p>(Iris isn’t used to freezing. She’s used to dodging hits and packing punches because she’s been in boxing gloves since before she could walk, but the situation hitting her like this is one blow she can’t avoid, and she feels like she’s just been sucker-punched, knocked flat on her back by something she never saw coming.)</p><p>She’s no longer on the edge of her side of the bed, but curled up next to Barry instead, her body curved around his so much, she’s nearly lying on top of him. And she’s somehow decided to nestle her face against him too, the top of her head fitting perfectly in the arc of his throat, her lips right above the delicate edge of his collarbone.</p><p>And perhaps the most telling and treacherous part of all is the way her hand is resting against his chest, like she was seeking out his heartbeat even in her sleep.</p><p>Iris tenses, holds her breath, counts to ten, waits for Barry to wake up and find out what her stupid, <i>stupid</i> sleeping self has gone and done. But his eyes don’t open, and his breathing is all steady and even and slow, and so Iris lies there for a minute, watching him, trying to gauge how deep of a sleep he’s in.</p><p>But she finds herself distracted from the real reason she’s supposed to be studying him, surprised by how calm he looks, so peaceful and still, not spilling over with rushing energy for once, not like he how he is when he’s awake, when he moves like he has to be in perpetual motion or else the energy simmering inside will burn him alive.</p><p>And, up close, Iris can see the hidden freckles in the tender hollow of his throat, like someone’s secretly sketched out stars there, and the way his long lashes tangle together, all wispy and soft, and they make Iris want to run the pad of her finger over them, like how she does with those white dandelion puffs, the ones that you make wishes on and blow away like fairy dust.</p><p>And she also can’t help but notice how he’s so <i>warm</i>, warm enough that she can feel the way waves of heat roll off of him and onto her, radiating all the way down to her bones.</p><p>(Once upon a time, so many conversations ago, Iris remembers Barry telling her that lightning was so hot, it turned all the air around it three times warmer than the surface of the sun. And she doesn’t know why she remembers that fact, but she thinks that it’s the only reasonable explanation for the sheer amount of warmth he emits now, that Barry must have glittering bursts of lightning under the lining of his skin, and electricity running through his veins, crackling with energy and heat even in his sleep.)</p><p>And Iris briefly considers if it should feel weird, lying here so close to him, her hair spilling over his shoulder, his heartbeat under her hand.</p><p>Maybe it should, she thinks.</p><p>But it doesn’t.</p><p>There’s a certain degree of familiarity to this intimacy, this gentleness and sense of safety that exists in every single interaction between them, because this is <i>Barry</i>, her best friend in the universe, and when he’s with her, there’s always a softness that takes the edge off.</p><p>But there’s this sense of newness too, this sense of uncertainty, because there’s no map for this, no guidebook or compass. And Iris isn’t sure of what new place this is in their friendship, other than she’s sure it must be on the other side of a line.</p><p>She doesn’t want to cross a line, she thinks, ignoring the fact that she already <i>has</i>, and she isn’t sure how he’d react to seeing her like this, whatever <i>this</i> is, close enough to bask in the warmth of him.</p><p>So hoping that Barry hasn’t surfaced awake and felt the weight of her yet or her skin against his, Iris slides away from him. </p><p>(And she instantly feels cold.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Here’s the thing about Barry being Iris’ best friend:<p>He’d hurl himself into the sea at her command, and be halfway through the air, right between the waves and the sky before he ever thought to ask her why. </p><p>(And Barry stresses <i>best friend</i> because, yeah, he’s in love with her, so, so in love with her that it consumes every one of his breaths and each beat of his heart. But that’s not why he trusts her; he trusts her because she’s his best friend who has saved him time and time again.)</p><p>That being said, being Iris’ best friend could also lead to some...interesting situations. Like getting married to her for student aid, for instance.</p><p>Or, at the moment: Standing guard while Iris takes incriminating photos in an office she broke into.</p><p>Barry’s a bit vague on the details, honestly. He only knows that Iris walked into their living room with a determined stride and fire in her eyes, like she could set the whole world ablaze, and he knew that something was up.</p><p>(“I’m going to do some investigating for my exposé,” Iris had said as she grabbed her phone. “I’ll be home in time for dinner. If I’m not, call my editor, he’ll know what to tell the police.”</p><p>And Barry had stopped her, his hand circling loosely around her wrist, and she’d looked up at him, defiant, like she thought he was going to tell her she shouldn’t go. And her eyes were bright, from determination and adrenaline, and he knew whatever this was, he couldn’t ask her to let it go, he could only try to keep her safe. So he’d traced the pad of his thumb in a circle, right against the inside of her wrist and said:</p><p>“Let me come with you.”</p><p>And for the first time since she walked in, Iris smiled, and it was like he could see her whole face soften when she looked up at him.)</p><p>So that’s why Barry now keeps watch in a hallway, glancing nervously down the long, winding rows of empty corridors, and flinching every time he hears one of the overhead fluorescent lights flicker and buzz.</p><p>He really wasn’t meant for a life of crime, he thinks. Or a life of journalism.</p><p>Iris, however, had looked right at home when she’d kneeled in front of the office and slid her credit card in the space between the door and the frame, popping the lock, before looking up at him over her shoulder, grinning deviously as her pretty eyes glittered.</p><p>(Barry probably shouldn’t have found her breaking in somewhere so attractive, honestly, but he did.</p><p>He really, really did.)</p><p>He surveys the halls once again, frowning at how all the passages criss-cross and intersect, and how nearly every door looks alike, and then he feels movement behind him, and Iris emerges from the office, her phone in hand.</p><p>“Done,” she whispers quietly, slipping her phone in her pocket.</p><p>“Good,” he says, his hand moving automatically to her back, palm protectively against it as he ushers her down the maze of hallways. “How did you get this tip about the documents, anyway?”</p><p>“I kept going over this public police report I pulled,” Iris explains. “I had this instinct telling me that something wasn’t right, that I was trying to put together a puzzle with a missing piece. So I found the person who filed the report and contacted him.”</p><p>“And you got him to tell you the truth?”</p><p>She gives him a sideways glance, “With these eyes and this smile, you’d be surprised how many people let their guard down.”</p><p>No, actually, he wouldn’t be, because Iris can make enchanting any living thing look easy, like she was part siren, but Barry still can’t help the sudden surge of jealously that flares up inside him, burning like a bonfire.</p><p>(Iris isn’t his, he reminds himself. Not really, his last name being attached to hers is only honorary, a necessary legal quirk for the paperwork. She wasn’t actually his wife. Well, she <i>was</i>, just...not like that.)</p><p>Iris cocks an eyebrow, “Why are you making that face?”</p><p>“I’m not making a face,” he says, making a face.</p><p>(And then he contradicts his own attempt at detached logic and comforts himself with the knowledge that Iris was just using that guy for information and it’s not like that probable criminal actually got to go <i>home</i> with her and fix her coffee and watch her wear one of his flannel shirts she’s stolen as she works on her article, typing furiously and muttering to herself and biting her bottom lip.)</p><p>“It’s definitely a face.”</p><p>He blinks, turns a corner, tries to remember which way the exit is, “It’s nothing.”</p><p>“Barry, you’re not — ”</p><p>But Iris words are interrupted by the sound of something that makes Barry freeze. </p><p>It’s footsteps.</p><p>Footsteps that don’t belong to him, because they don’t stop when he does.</p><p>“Please tell me that’s you,” he whispers.</p><p>Iris falls to a stop beside him, and he can feel the tight, pulse-spiking tension rolling off her as she says, “It’s not me.”</p><p>And they’re both silent and still for just a second —</p><p>And then they’re moving frantically, a dizzying blur of limbs and nerves as they try to find somewhere, <i>anywhere</i> to hide.</p><p>Barry tries the first door he sees, jerks the handle down forcefully, his heart pounding so hard the sound fills his ears, but the door is locked, the knob not turning an inch.</p><p>So he tries the next door.</p><p>Then the next, then the next, then the <i>next</i>, checking them all, and it’s like he has super speed, like he’s moving faster than normal, in a breath, in a blink. </p><p>And he tries a sixth door, refusing to give up, because the only thing he knows is he can’t let Iris get caught. And he twists the handle roughly, begging and begging and <i>begging</i>...</p><p>And the door <i>opens.</i></p><p>And he grabs Iris’ hand and pulls her in after him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris is pulled through a doorway after Barry, and they collide instantly in the darkness, like two shooting stars in the night, and she falls onto him, her body flush against his, tipping them backwards. And she muffles a squeak of surprise as they teeter dangerously, their limbs tangling, one of his legs coming between both of hers, their arms accidentally twisting together as they scramble to stay upright.<p>And Iris grabs onto what feels like a shelf and untangles herself, tries to take half a step back, but the space must be much smaller than she realized, because her heel hits something hard, and she tips forward once more, feeling herself fall.</p><p>“<i>Iris</i>,” Barry whispers, hissing out her name in alarm, and he reaches out, catching her midair.</p><p>But they’re both moving too quickly on unsteady feet, and in the chaos, his hand slips beneath her shirt, sliding up along her waist, his soft fingertips gliding over the rise of her ribcage.</p><p>And the feel of him comes in incredibly sharp and utterly clear, like her brain is all too tuned in to how his hand is touching her where it never has before, how his palm is skimming along the bare skin of her body.</p><p>And Iris can feel her heart beating like a snare drum, because she’s used to Barry’s touch, but not there, not with his hand under her shirt with nothing in-between the feel of his skin and hers.</p><p>“Sorry,” Barry whispers, sounding just as shocked as she feels. “Sorry, I didn’t — ”</p><p>“I know, it’s okay.”</p><p>And he snatches his hand back, like she’s made of fire and he’s scared of getting burnt, and he moves away from steadying her so fast that Iris nearly falls again in the process.</p><p>“Sorry,” Barry says again. “I thought this was an office.”</p><p>“This office looks a lot like a supply closet, Bear.”</p><p>He winces, “I’m realizing that now.”</p><p>Iris’ back is against a stack of brown boxes and Barry’s pressing himself flat against the shelves on the wall opposite of her, and Iris tries not to think about the fact that the distance between them is only about a handspan and a half. </p><p>(Or about the way she’s breathing shallowly, and notices Barry doing the same, like they’re both afraid their inhales will take up too much space.)</p><p>“We need a story about why we’re in here,” Iris says, trying to push down the panic and come up with a plan. “Something to tell them if they open the door.”</p><p>“Okay, what do you have?”</p><p>“<i>Me</i>?”</p><p>Barry stares at her, “<i>You’re</i> the writer.”</p><p>Iris wants to argue, but doesn’t, there’s not really any time to, not when someone could be coming, not when she might as well be holding a written admission of guilt, because who innocently hid in closets?</p><p>She sighs, crosses her arms, trying to fold herself in, and out of the corner of her vision, Iris catches the movement of her hands as the come against her, catches the way her ring is still glittering in the dark, like it’s shaped from shaved-off stardust. And she stops, stares at the ring, and then up at Barry’s silhouette and back down again.</p><p>And the way out of this hits her like a sudden burst of fireworks.</p><p>“Barry,” she says slowly. “We’re supposedly newlyweds.”</p><p>“We’re <i>actually</i> newlyweds,” he tells her distractedly. “What’s your point?”</p><p>“We’re newlyweds in a closet, that’s my point.”</p><p>Iris is met by silence, and she counts to three heartbeats before her words sink in, and even in the darkness, she can see how wildly Barry’s blushing. </p><p>“Oh,” he says, his eyes wide, and he looks like a deer caught in the headlights, only the headlights are <i>her.</i> “Oh.”</p><p>And he shifts, the nervous energy ebbing within him wanting him to move, except there’s no place to run to and when he shifts, it only brings his arm brushing against her hip and he quickly moves away again.</p><p>“I can’t think of any other reason that wouldn’t be suspicious about why we’re shut up in a closet,” Iris points out. “The cover story builds itself, your wife is too gorgeous for you not to want to sneak off with.”</p><p>Barry inhales sharply at her words, looks like he nearly forgets to exhale back out, “I don’t think — ”</p><p>“You don’t think I’m gorgeous?”</p><p>“No,” Barry says quickly, and Iris raises an amused eyebrow, watches as his eyes widen as he realizes how that came out. “I mean, yes,” he continues, rambling now, his words all strung together, running end to end. “No. Yes. I mean, I think you’re gorgeous, obviously, but — ”</p><p>“‘Obviously?’ Thanks, Bear. That’s sweet.”</p><p>Barry shuts his eyes, his long, dark lashes fluttering closed. And he shakes his head, sort of laughing, sort of sighing, almost smiling in disbelief, like he’s wondering if the universe thinks his life is one big, cosmic punchline.</p><p>“So,” he says, eyes still closed. “What do we do?”</p><p>“Fake a pose?”</p><p>“Fake a pose,” Barry echoes.</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>He licks his lips, shakes his head slightly, “Iris — ”</p><p>But the footsteps outside grow suddenly louder, sharper, like an escalating drumbeat, echoing off the tile, and Iris’ nerves shoot up at the sound.</p><p>And Barry’s green eyes open, flickering toward the door, and he looks like he’s thinking, calculating, trying to decide what to do. But he must decide that she’s right, that it’s the only story anyone will buy, that there’s no time to come up with anything better, because he looks back at her and steps forward, suddenly bringing his body up against hers.</p><p>And Iris’ breath hitches ever so slightly at his new proximity, at the feeling of him pressed against her, at the way she can breathe in the scent of him, of cedar and orange and cinnamon. But she doesn’t move away this time, she stays right where she is, rests her hands against his sides, tilts her head back to meet his eyes.</p><p>The silhouette of his lashes catches in the pale light, outlining them in a soft golden glow, and as Iris stares up at him through the shadows, she’s reminded of a statue she once saw in a museum, with cheekbones carved from marble, and a jawline of sharp stone, skin dappled with patterns of gold.</p><p>And Barry gazes down at her from beneath his long lashes, his eyes going over her face, hesitant and searching, like he’s asking for her explicit consent to continue even though this plan of escape was hers in the first place</p><p>(And this, this is why she trusts him — anytime and anywhere, with anything. He has a way of making her feel safe, like silk wound around sharp corners, or soft hands catching her when she falls. And she has this innate sense of faith that he will always be tender with her, even when situations are tense.)</p><p>“It’s okay,” Iris says softly.</p><p>And it’s only once she gives him her definite permission that he moves again, and he surprises her by reaching out to brush a curl back off her face, the pad of his thumb skimming her cheek, soft and lingering, as he carefully tucks her hair behind her ear with gentle fingers.</p><p>And then he bends his head, but he doesn’t kiss her — or pose kissing her — like she thinks he’s going to. He ignores her mouth, turns his head so his lips graze the side of her face instead, and he pauses there, by the hollow of her cheek, head tilting slightly, like he’s considering something, internally debating, and she can feel his eyes glance sideways, up toward hers in thought. </p><p>And Iris thinks that maybe that’s as far as Barry’s going to go, that a fake kiss on the cheek is the most convincing pose he can give, considering they’re only friends and he’s never once thought of her like this.</p><p>But then Barry dips his head, moves again, and it’s like he’s curling loosely around the shape of her. And she leans up toward him as he bends over her, not yet touching, merely arcing, like they’re ying and yang, or two separate constellations entwining, winding slightly around the other’s form.</p><p>And there’s something hypnotic about the way his chest rises and falls like the tide against her, the way his ribcage expands right under her hands with each inhale, the way he’s leaning in so close his lashes almost flutter against her but <i>don’t</i>. And the moment feels removed from reality, like it’s somewhere out of time, suspended in the space between heartbeats and spans of breath, in a world between waking and dreaming. </p><p>And ever so slowly, he curves his head inward against her, keeps going til she feels his hot exhale on the spot just below her jaw, on her neck, his parted lips hovering right above the throb of her pulse point, the pure heat of his breath whispering over her skin. </p><p>And it makes Iris nearly go breathless, feel like he’s flooding her senses, and she arches upward, getting lost in the feel of him. And this is all just a cover story, she knows. A fake pose. A misdirection. Neither even wanted to actually kiss.</p><p>...But what if they <i>did</i>?</p><p>And before Iris can get the answer to her question —</p><p>The door opens.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Light pours in the closet, bright white and blinding, flooding his vision, and Barry blinks, tries to get a grip, slip out of the fantasy and back into reality, because <i>he nearly kissed Iris and what was he thinking</i>?<p>(Alright, he’ll tell you what he was thinking. He was thinking that being allowed to have his mouth that close to her skin was kind of like torture, kind of like rapture. He was thinking about the contrast between the sharpness of her jawline and the delicateness of her pulse point, both in the same space on her body.</p><p>He was thinking that placebos weren’t real, weren’t real at all, that they were just little fake pills but he felt high on her.)</p><p> “Oh, hi,” Barry hears Iris say, brightly and breathlessly, and he wonders if it’s all as fake as her surprise. “Did you need to get in here?”</p><p>And when Barry’s eyes adjust to the light he sees an older businesswoman in a blazer staring at them, a frown on her face, her hands on her hips.</p><p>“This hall is a restricted area,” the woman says sternly. “<i>What</i> on —  ”</p><p>“Oh, is it restricted?” Iris asks, as if she doesn’t know, as if she just hasn’t broken into an office. “Sorry.”</p><p>(Iris is using her fake voice, Barry notices — the one that makes her sound all ditzy and innocent and is absolutely full of lies, because she’s the smartest person he’s ever met.)</p><p>“I’m going to have to report this to security,” the woman informs them, pulling out her cellphone. “You can’t just — ”</p><p>“Oh, there’s no need to bother security,” Iris plows on undeterred, talking over the woman. “Sorry, if we surprised you, we really didn’t think anyone would find us in there, did we Ba - babe?”</p><p>And Barry flushes instantly, because of the story and because of Iris’ near slip of his name and because of the term of endearment she cleverly turned it into.</p><p>(And also because he still remembers the way he was curved ever so slightly over her, and the way his mouth would’ve been on her had he been just a fraction closer. And he hopes Iris goes into her ace reporter mode when they get home and doesn’t bring this up ever, at all, because best friends didn’t exactly choose to pose like he did and <i>he really was the biggest idiot to ever exist wasn’t he</i>?)</p><p>“You see,” Iris says, “my husband and I were working late, and we saw the empty hall and then found the closet and...well, we just got married! Can you blame us?”</p><p>The woman is silent for a minute, and Barry holds his breath, tries to figure out how to run with Iris towards an exit, readies himself for whatever happens next, but then the woman’s frown turns into a knowing smile, and slowly, she lowers her cellphone.</p><p>“Ah,” she says, surveying them with amusement. “<i>Newlyweds</i>.”</p><p>Iris nudges Barry, and he laughs nervously, says, “Right. We’re still in that honeymoon stage.”</p><p>“<i>So</i> sorry about this,” Iris adds, side-stepping her way out of the closet. “We’ll just let you get in here now. Come on, honey.”</p><p>And then Iris grabs Barry’s hand, and as soon as the woman turns her back, they both run out of the building.</p><p>(And Barry remembers his twelve step plan for not falling even harder for his best friend and fake wife and ruining the best thing in his life, remembers how Step One was not to do anything stupid.</p><p>And he thinks:</p><p><i>Failed Step One.</i>)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris runs out of the building.<p>And then she doesn’t stop.</p><p>(Barry was always the one who ran, ever since he was a little kid. She remembers watching him run like he had ribbons of golden energy spiraling in the air around him, remembers seeing the determined look on his face, like he thought he could save the world, if only he was fast enough. </p><p>And Iris had tried running just for the sake of it too, curious to see what captivated her best friend so much, what it was about it that he couldn’t give up. And she’d imagined sparks of lavender lighting trailing out behind her, flowing in the air as she moved, leaving nothing behind but flashes of violet. </p><p>But the thing was, it never made her feel like she could save the world. </p><p>That feeling came from writing.)</p><p>When the building’s two blocks behind her, Iris finally stops, tired and breathless, the air feeling cold in her lungs, and Barry falls to a stop beside her, goes, “That was close.”</p><p>And Iris thinks of how they stood there, curving toward one another in the darkness, just a breath apart. </p><p>“Yeah,” she says. “It was.”</p><p>She’s got the photos on her phone burning a hole in her pocket and the memory of her and Barry nearly kissing burning in her mind, and she remembers how wary of her plan he had been, how that hesitation felt completely at odds with the way he had made her pulse throb. And Iris wants to ask if it meant something, or if it meant nothing at all.</p><p>Only she doesn’t know which answer she wants, doesn’t know what answer she’d give if he asked her the same question. She can’t seem to get her own multitude of conflicting feelings straight, like her emotions are an ocean, and she’s looking for a single drop of rain.</p><p>And this falsified marriage has already put uncertainty between them like nothing else ever has, made her unsure of how Barry will react when she used to be able to read his face like it was her favorite book.</p><p>So if she brings that moment up, it could make things between them even more strained, and she doesn’t want their friendship to have to change. Doesn’t want any couple second slip-up in a closet to ruin the effortless affection between them, doesn’t want him to have to stop and <i>think</i> about what it means before he hugs her, doesn’t know what she’d do if she had to reign it in and not touch him. </p><p>(And Iris thinks of the nearly unconscious way his thumb will draw patterns across her wrist when he takes her hand. The way she’ll link her arm through his so that they’re still physically connected, even when they’re walking, like they’re each other’s touchstone. The untroubled way they talk about their day as he cooks their dinner, and she proofreads his essays.</p><p>She doesn’t want to do anything that complicates any of that.</p><p>Well, anything <i>else</i>.)</p><p>And she looks at him now the way she did on the day of the laboratory fire, like she doesn’t want to lose her best friend, doesn’t want to see this casual ease and familiar intimacy they’ve spent over a decade building up suddenly crumble down into dust.</p><p>Rome wasn’t built in a day, she knows, but it burned in one. </p><p>And it seems like her and Barry keep playing with fire, accidentally igniting little flames again and again and again, and she doesn’t want their friendship to be ancient ruins in the history of them.</p><p>So Iris stays silent, hopes Barry forgets all about it.</p><p>(The only problem is, she doesn’t think she can.</p><p>And that thought seems as dangerous as striking a match.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry gets to it first by mere chance.<p>When they get home, Iris goes straight to her laptop, with no eyes for anything else, and so she doesn’t notice the white paper on the floor, slid under their apartment door. She walks right past it, flipping open her laptop, ready to shape sentences beneath her fingers like a sculptor would clay.</p><p>But Barry sees it.</p><p>It’s some letter from the college about policy updates, he realizes as he reaches for it, the kind that’s printed on cheap paper and gets slid under everyone’s door, the type that looks like it’d be an invite to a kegger party but isn’t. </p><p>So Barry picks it up, is ready to just toss it on the table unread...</p><p>Then he spots it.</p><p>Seven bullet-points down, one single sentence:</p><p>
  <i>Married students who applied for and received funding due to their marital status will now have the option of filing for divorce and returning to an unmarried status without losing any of their pre-determined financial aid.</i>
</p><p>And Barry feels his life fall apart from thirty-six little words typed up in size twelve New Times Roman font.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris can already see the story forming in her mind, word by word, like how a spider spins it’s gossamer web, weaving it thread by thread.<p>(And it’s exhilarating - the idea that she is taking a blank white page and turning it into something that has <i>power</i>, that the words forming under her fingers as she types will be echoing through the minds of others, that she is breathing life into something with the ability to take down the corrupt and right wrongs.</p><p>It’s time, she thinks, as she types.</p><p>It’s time the world sees just how powerful Iris West-Allen can be.)</p><p>So Iris sits there, writing and writing and writing, eyes glued to the screen. And she knows the sky is fading outside and time is passing, and she’s dimly aware of Barry picking up a white sheet of paper, then him setting down a dinner plate in front of her, but she’s not exactly sure what hour it is, or how long she’s been sitting there, until finally, she stops, puts her hands on her lap, starts to reread what she has.</p><p>And it’s only when she’s going over the third paragraph that she notices Barry staring at her. </p><p>(Iris isn’t even sure he knows he’s doing it, because he’s not stealing glances at her, sneaking them out of the corner of his eye, on the sly, like he usually does. He’s just openly staring, sort of dazed, as if he wants to look away but can’t, like she’s a scene in a movie he just can’t stop watching.)</p><p>Iris reads a sentence, glances up, looks back down, ends up rereading the exact same one, gives up, says:</p><p>“You keep looking at me.”</p><p>Barry blinks, tears his gaze away.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says and he looks down at the paper he’s holding in his hands, and Iris isn’t sure whether it’s important or if he’s merely trying to direct his eyes toward anything but her. </p><p>“It’s okay,” she says. “Just tell me why.”</p><p>And Iris braces herself, because she’s waiting for him to bring up their near kiss, waiting for him to tell her that her cover story’s made things awkward, that he needs to put some distance between them, rebuild the barrier they so recklessly broke down.</p><p>(And Iris doesn’t want that, doesn’t know what she’d do if all this has pushed him further away from her. The thing is, even if that happened, she has absolute faith they’d come back together one day, because they’re Barry and Iris, and the Earth might just stop spinning if they never made up. But she also knows their friendship might never be exactly the same after that, that they wouldn’t be able to go back to how close they once were, and she’s certain that would destroy her.)</p><p>Barry opens his mouth, starts to say something, and she holds her breath...</p><p>But then his gaze falls from her eyes to her fingers, and it’s like all of the words just die in his throat, and he looks sort of shocked and sort of awed, like he’s just seen a ghost. </p><p>And Iris frowns, looks down at her hands, wonders what he’s looking at, but the only thing she’s doing is twisting her wedding ring around on her finger. She’s started doing that recently; spinning it around and around and around, letting the smooth silver skim her finger.</p><p>“It helps me think,” Iris explains. </p><p>“I know,” he says, but his words don’t make any sense, because Iris doesn’t know how he could recognize a brand new habit she’s only just begun. </p><p>“You know?”</p><p>And Barry smiles, sort of small and sort of sad, and says:</p><p>“My mom used to do the exact same thing with that ring, I never thought I’d see it again.”</p><p>His words wash over her like a wave upon the shore, flooding every inch of her. And Iris is a writer, someone who knows the sheer impact a sentence can have, the emotions it can give, but she’s never really felt it herself before, not like this. </p><p>(It’s just a handful of words, a single sentiment said in one breath, but it circles around in her head like a song she’s heard or a sonnet she’s read, like it’s part of a poem that’s both too beautiful and painful to forget.)</p><p>And the fact that she’s picking up a habit from the past, echoing a long lost memory of the woman who loved him last, feels sad and precious and bittersweet, and Barry’s eyes are so full of wonder and so full of grief.</p><p>And it’s that look on his face that makes Iris feel guilty, because it’s one thing to look like you’ve seen a ghost, but it’s another thing entirely to have someone look at you like <i>you’re</i> the ghost.</p><p>Especially if you’re a fraud of one.</p><p>(Iris never really knew Nora Allen, will never know her now. But, despite this, Iris knows she loves her, can’t ever <i>not</i> love her, because Nora gave her her best friend, Nora gave her <i>Barry</i>, and Iris has spent every day since she’s met him being grateful that she did, because living without him would be like living without music or color, like the whole world made sadder and duller.</p><p>And wearing Nora’s ring feels nearly irreverent now, like Iris has been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.)</p><p>“I feel like a fraud,” Iris admits. “Sitting here using your mother’s last name, wearing her ring, when neither really belong to me.”</p><p>Barry stares at her, and she looks away, but she can still feel the full weight of his green eyes searching her face, like his gaze is something physical she can feel sweep over her.</p><p>(And Iris wonders if his future wife will ever wear this ring and do something that she herself does, if Barry will stare at his new wife’s hands and see Iris’ instead.)</p><p> And then Barry says:</p><p>“I think she’d want you to have the ring. <i>I</i> want you to have it.”</p><p>Iris looks up, “What?”</p><p>“I know we’re going to get divorced,” Barry says, and something about the way he says it so factually sends a pang right through her, makes her wonder why he’d bring it up. “I know we were never meant to stay together. But I can’t take the ring back. It’s <i>yours</i>, Iris. It’s always going to be yours.”</p><p>“<i>Barry</i>,” Iris begins, but she doesn’t know how to finish.</p><p>She’d always believed that, one day, Barry would find some girl who knew how amazing he really was, and his mother’s ring would be hers, and they’d have a kid named Nora.</p><p>And Iris would be Nora’s honorary aunt, her father’s best friend.</p><p>(Only Aunt Iris doesn’t sound completely right, somehow.</p><p>It never used to really bother her before, but it bothers her now. It just doesn’t seem to fit anymore, the way it once did.</p><p>If it ever really did in the first place.)</p><p>“Iris, look at us. Look at our history ” Barry says, putting down the paper and moving over next to her. “You’re the one the ring belongs to. No one but you is ever going to look back and have these memories that we do. Maybe one day after we divorce, you’ll get married again, and I will too,” he continues, and his words hurt for a reason she doesn’t yet understand. “But it’s always going to be you who stood there and said you believed me when no one else would. It’s always going to be you who held me together when every atom in me was breaking apart.”</p><p>He takes her hand, lifts it up, runs his thumb over the rim of the ring, sending it sparkling.</p><p>“You’re always going to be my best friend,” he tells her. “And this ring is always going to belong with you. So don’t ever feel like a fraud wearing it, okay? Not ever. Because it’s yours, Iris. There’s no one else’s it could ever be.”</p><p>Iris shuts her eyes, can’t contain the tear that comes falling down her cheek this time. And she wants to argue, know that she should, but she just can’t bring herself to. Can’t see herself as Aunt Iris who has a funny little story about how she used to wear his mother’s ring as she stares at it on some other woman. Can’t explain why the ring feels like it belongs on her even when she feels like a fake, like it’s something beautiful and real despite the mess they’ve both made.</p><p>Iris turns to hug him, and Barry’s arms come up automatically, like instinct, like they’re waiting for her, and she slips into them, her own arms winding around his neck.</p><p>(And falling into his arms feels natural, like it’s the only right thing in the world.)</p><p>“Hey,” Barry says lightly, nudging her, like he’s trying to make her smile again. “Don't do that. Don’t cry. Remember the first time I ever gave you a ring?”</p><p>Iris leans back, brushes her tears away with the back of her hand, exhales a watery laugh, “Barry Allen, are you actually comparing this moment to the time you gave me that ring pop candy when we were kids?”</p><p>“It’s the same principle,” he says lightly. “Both are yours for keeps.”</p><p>“Mine for keeps,” Iris echoes. </p><p>(And neither one of them catches that she’s looking at him, not down at the ring when she says it.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I) Two more chapters to go! Will Iris and Barry ever come to realize they’ve been in love for almost as long as they’ve both been alive? Will they stop being idiots and actually kiss? Will three little words ever be uttered aloud? </p><p>I mean, yeah, obviously. But you still don’t want to miss it, right?</p><p>To be notified when the grand finale (which features my all time favorite trope) and the epilogue go up, make sure to subscribe to this fic or to my Ao3 account, which is dedicated to westallen fics. </p><p>II) If you enjoyed this chapter, be an angel and drop me a kudos or leave a comment so I can find the motivation to finish this. ❤️ </p><p>III) Because I’ve gotten a couple questions about it: The time of the next update will depend on how much interaction this chapter gets, tbh. Despite nearly doubling in subscriptions after people read Chapter 3, Chapter 4 got way, way less views (and also less comments) because of winter break/the holidays. So I’m hoping you readers are back to your regular schedules and I’m not posting Chapter 5 into the void here. 😅 If I am, I’ll wait a little closer to the end of January to post Chapter 6. </p><p>IV) I got nothin but love for my fellow westallen fans, so come drop by my Twitter (@irisbestallen) or Tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com) and say hi.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. To Love Forevermore</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The thing is, when what you have escapes definition, it can be hard to find the right words to say.</p><p>Sometimes, you just have to show someone.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barry sits alone in the living room, the night pouring in through the windows, staring down at the letter, like maybe if he looks at it long enough, wishes hard enough, the subject will change and all the words will rearrange into something not as shattering.</p><p>But it doesn’t. It’s still there, wrecking his world in black and white:</p><p>
  <i>Married students who applied for and received funding due to their marital status will now have the option of filing for divorce and returning to an unmarried status without losing any of their pre-determined financial aid.</i>
</p><p>He doesn’t know why it’s so shocking when he knew divorce was always coming. Doesn’t know why the idea of it is so painful when their marriage isn’t even real, just some sort of placebo.</p><p>But it aches nonetheless.</p><p>He can’t show Iris the letter, he thinks, not yet.</p><p>Just like how he can’t tell her he loves her.</p><p>(And what Barry has no idea is: He’s <i>already</i> been telling her he loves her, over and over again, just not in so many words. The sentiment is there — every time they talk or act or trade a glance. </p><p>And he never once considers that Iris is unknowingly trying to tell him the exact same thing. That <i>I love you too</i> is the subtext of all of their conversations, that the words lie in-between the lines of every single sentence she’s ever said to him. </p><p>And both don’t know they’re doing it, and neither one hears the other. </p><p><i>Yet</i>.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>It’s three o’clock in the morning, and Iris is dreaming of a distant memory.<p>The dream’s of the time her and Barry were both little kids and pretended to say <i>I do</i> long before they ever actually did. And her mind echoes with images of a bouquet of sidewalk daisies, and a stuffed T-Rex, and pajamas instead of a wedding dress.</p><p>And she’s just reliving walking down an isle made up of living room rugs, when she feels someone softly shaking her shoulder.</p><p>“Iris,” Barry says, real Barry, not in her dream, but somewhere outside of it. “Iris?”</p><p>So Iris shifts awake, returning to the real world, because she can’t ever ignore Barry, not properly, and when she cracks one eye open she sees his hand on her shoulder, and him hovering over her. And as she takes in his wrinkled white undershirt and his messy, nighttime hair, that’s also when her sleep-filled mind ever so slowly notices that she’s not in bed. She’s sitting up in a chair instead, slumped over the kitchen table, the polished wood painfully hard under her head, drafts of her article spread out under strands of her hair.</p><p>She must’ve drifted off at the kitchen table, right in the middle of editing.</p><p>She would care, Iris thinks, if she were really awake.</p><p>Except she’s not.</p><p>“Hey, no,” Barry protests softly as her eyes fall closed again. “Don’t do that.”</p><p>Iris makes a quiet, disgruntled sort of noise, “Why not?”</p><p>“Because it’s three in the morning and you need to actually get in bed.”</p><p>“Good point.”</p><p>But sleep is calling out to her like a siren song, and she feels powerless to resist, not when she’s so tired and her bedroom is so far, and her head stays on the table, her eyes already closed, the silky darkness slipping in.</p><p>“Okay,” Iris hears Barry say after a moment. “Plan B, then.”</p><p>Then she feels the sudden warmth of him bending down closer, and one of his hands slips under her, between the seat of the chair and her legs, his palm sliding beneath her knees, smooth as silk against her skin. And his other hand winds around her back, encircling her, fingers brushing against the pattern of her ribcage.</p><p>Then, slowly, she feels herself rise in the air as he lifts her up in his arms.</p><p>And Iris never knew that Barry could carry her before, just pick her up and hold her like she was nothing. But here they are now, him carefully carrying her, like she’s weightless, a girl made of feathers, and he carries her with ease, like he’s done it a hundred times before. And she can feel how one of his arms is forming a cradle for her back, how one of his hands is cupping the curve of her thighs.</p><p>And Iris sleepily remembers, somewhere in the back of her mind, that the way of carrying someone like this is called <i>bridal style.</i></p><p>She knows if she were just the slightest bit more awake, she’d insist that he didn’t need to carry her to bed, but she’s so tired, and his arms are strong and safe, and she finds herself instinctively curling into the warmth of him, like he’s got sunshine in his skin and her body can’t help but melt against his. And she lets herself give in, the top of her head falling into the curve of his neck, her eyelashes fluttering closed against the hollow of his throat.</p><p>And the sweet tendrils of sleep are entwining around her, but still, she has a thought.</p><p>“You never did carry me across the threshold,” she murmurs.</p><p>Barry pauses, stilled in his steps, and his hands involuntarily grip her tighter in surprise, fingers reflexively curling into her thighs for just a fraction of a second.</p><p>Then his hold loosens again, and he swallows, says, “No, I didn’t.”</p><p>And Iris isn’t sure why her half-asleep self is holding onto this fact, why she thinks it’s important, why she even thinks it’s okay to talk about when she knows if she were wide awake, she’d never, <i>ever</i> mention it out loud.</p><p>But, still, she hears herself question him.</p><p>“Would you have? If I asked?” </p><p>He laughs lightly, and she can feel it dance in his chest.</p><p>“I think the fact that we’re married is proof that I’ll do anything you ask,” he tells her.</p><p>“Except for letting me have your fries.”</p><p>“Right. Except for that. A line has to be drawn somewhere. Marriage, yes. French fries, no.”</p><p>Her half-asleep hum comes out on an exhale, “You’d say yes to anything else, though?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he says softly after a moment. “Anything else.”</p><p>Then he lowers her down onto her bed, slowly, carefully, like she’s something precious, something priceless, and he’s trying to be gentle. </p><p>And she senses her body touch down on the mattress, feels his left hand sliding out from under her, pads of his brushing beneath her thighs, his right hand falling down her spine. Then he bends toward her feet, and she feels his thumb move over the curve of her ankle bone before skimming along the soft arch of her foot as he slides her slippers off for her.</p><p>Then he pulls her blankets up over her, tucking her in bed, hands lingering around her shoulders just for a moment before he moves away.</p><p>And Iris wants to be awake for this, wishes she were more conscious, but she can already tell sleep is overtaking her, can already see her vision blurring around the edges, like a scene in a movie slowly fading to black. So she tries to talk, tries to make herself wake up, because for some reason she doesn’t want this moment to end.</p><p>“What do you dream about?” she asks sleepily.</p><p>Barry exhales a laugh, quiet and light as a lullaby, his hands running over the sheets, “What?”</p><p>“You must dream,” she reasons aloud.</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>“So tell me what you dream about.”</p><p>But her eyes are already shutting, sleep seeping into her mind, her body completely stilling except for her breathing.</p><p>And right before her dreams overtake her, Iris can’t be sure, but she think she hears him tell her:</p><p>“<i>You.</i>”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry’s walking Iris home from the library, her borrowed books in his arms, while she holds his stack of chemistry quiz cards, reading them out loud to him as they go. Only he keeps getting the answers wrong, isn’t really paying attention to most of the questions.<p>The thing is, they always pass the science building on the way home, and when they went by today, Barry saw the new poster a professor put up on the outside wall.</p><p>The poster was advertising how to volunteer for this year’s placebo study. </p><p>(As if Barry needed another reminder about how fake things felt real.)</p><p>Divorce is inevitable, he knows. Unavoidable and inescapable and always part of the plan. Trying to stop it would be like thinking he could stop the sunrise, or trying to hold back the tide.</p><p>He feels like he wants to, though. Feels like crashing into the stinging saltwater, pressing back against the sea with nothing but his bare hands, trying delay the roll of the waves, because he doesn’t want to let her go.</p><p>Which is why he hasn’t told her about the letter yet. But it feels cowardly, keeping it from her. Wrong. They were Barry and Iris, and this isn’t like him. He tells her everything.</p><p>(Well.</p><p>Almost everything. </p><p>He still hasn’t told her that one little fact he’s known ever since the moment he met her.)</p><p>And he’s just opening his mouth, about to go, <i>Listen, there’s something you should know,</i> when they reach their apartment doorway, and he hears Iris say:</p><p>“What is <i>that</i>?”</p><p>And it’s a question that’s definitely not coming from the quiz cards she's holding, so he stops, pulls himself out of his thoughts, and looks up, wondering what she could be looking at.</p><p>And then he immediately wonders what he’s looking at too.</p><p>There’s an oddly shaped-box with no lid sitting in front of their door, wrapped in cellophane and decorated with ribbons that spiral out onto the floor. And there’s a single metallic mylar balloon attached to it too, bobbing merrily in the air, and both Iris and Barry watch in complete silence as the ballon turns, revealing a sticker of a bride and groom on it’s side before it rotates away. </p><p>And Barry doesn’t think he can handle watching the ballon spin again, so he hands Iris’ books to her, and walks over to whatever this monstrosity is that’s been left on their doorstep. He kneels, bends his head to peer inside...</p><p>And then immediately leans back in surprise.</p><p>Something inside the box is <i>alive.</i></p><p>And it’s looking at him.</p><p>“Barry,” Iris says slowly, from where she’s stationed herself above his shoulder, “are those <i>eyes</i>?”</p><p>“Oh good, you see them too,” he mutters. “I thought I was hallucinating.”</p><p>He stares up at Iris in confusion as she frowns down at him, and then cautiously, they both turn back to the box in tandem, inspecting it’s contents once again, and Iris says:</p><p>“I think it’s a turtle.”</p><p>Befuddled, Barry reaches out and rips a strip of wrapping paper, peeling it back off of what’s apparently <i>not</i> a box, but a glossy, glass bowl that did, in fact, have a turtle sitting in it.</p><p>“There’s a note,” Iris says, bending down to pick it up, sounding somewhat relieved that there’s an explanation for all of this.</p><p>And, still somewhat dazed, Barry holds the bowl up at eye level and peers in at the turtle, who blinks back at him, all lazy and vaguely disinterested, as Barry asks:</p><p>“What’s the note say?”</p><p>“<i>‘B. A.,’</i>,” Iris reads off a little square of white card stock, “<i>‘Many belated congratulations on your marriage, H. R.’”</i></p><p>“H. R.,” Barry says, closing his eyes with a tired sigh. “That explains it.”</p><p>Iris looks up, her nose wrinkling adorably, “Isn’t he that professor of yours that tried to clone himself?” </p><p>“Yeah, that’s him. He came pretty close to succeeding, actually.”</p><p>“Wait,” she says, flipping the card over. “He wrote more on the other side.” </p><p>“Of course he did.”</p><p>“<i>‘P.S. Be careful, she bites.’”</i></p><p>“Of course she does. Who wouldn’t want a wedding present that could bite you?”</p><p>“It definitely wouldn’t be on our registry, Bear,” Iris replies absently. “But hush, I’m not through. <i>‘Studies show that turtles can recognize the faces and voices of their owners, so be sure to figure out a name for her. I also heard that...’”</i></p><p>“Come on, don’t keep me on suspense. What did he hear?”</p><p>Iris shakes her head, takes a breath, begins again, “<i>‘I also heard that a pet was a good practice child for a young, newlywed couple before they had their own offspring.’”</i></p><p>And Barry very, very nearly drops the turtle. </p><p>He feels the glass start to slip from his hands, his fingers going slack in shock, and then he hears a surprised squeak, and Iris reaches over on instinct, bringing her palm up to steady the bottom of the bowl. And they stand there like that in the hallway for a second, completely wild-eyed and silent, both holding the turtle bowl, wondering what on Earth to say.</p><p>And all Barry’s brain can do is scream the word <i>offspring</i> on repeat and wish that the past few moments were all just some kind of a dream.</p><p>(He doesn’t want a kid, not <i>now</i>, not this young. But he does want one. He’s always wanted one. And as his eyes fall over Iris, he can’t help but think that if they ever really did have a baby, their child would be all the best of her and him combined in looks and heart and mind. </p><p>And he can see it, clear as day, some little girl with quick feet and a sharp mind, with his mouth and Iris’ eyes, who calls them <i>dad</i> and <i>mom</i> and who smiles like the sun.)</p><p>“Well,” Iris finally says. “He’s right. It’s something to think about.”</p><p>Barry nearly drops the bowl again, “<i>Offspring?”</i></p><p>“What we’re going to name the turtle, Bear.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>Barry takes a breath, his heartbeat slowing down in his chest, as Iris slowly lets go of the bowl and moves to unlock their door. And he listens to her keys jingling and the apartment lock clicking, thinks of what you’d possibly name a turtle, and then an old memory hits him, and he goes:</p><p>“How about McSnurtle?”</p><p>Iris stills, the silver doorknob turned halfway under her hand, and then she turns, looking over her shoulder at him.</p><p>“McSnurtle the Turtle. My favorite childhood stuffed animal,” she says, cocking her head. “You remember that?”</p><p>(Of course. He remembers everything about her. It’s <i>her</i>. How could he not?</p><p>But he doesn’t say that.)</p><p>“You loved McSnurtle,” he says instead. “Got rid of all your other toys but always kept him.”</p><p>“Of course not, McSnurtle was special.”</p><p>“Oh? Special, was he? Is that why he’s in a box in the attic now? As your best friend, remind me to watch my back with you.”</p><p>She laughs, “Shut up.”</p><p>“Seriously, he’s in your attic now, and you used to not be able to sleep without him,” Barry teases, then pauses, thinks about it. “Well, except that one night — ”</p><p>“— When I gave him to you,” Iris says, completing his thought.</p><p>(One time, shortly after that terrifying night that changed his life, Barry had woken up from a bad dream, the memory of it still all too fresh in his mind. And there were tears already streaming down his face, plastering his lashes against his cheekbones and staining his pillow, like he’d started crying even in his sleep.</p><p>And he must not have been as quiet as he thought, because he heard Iris knock on his door, and softly call out his name. Only he didn’t answer her, muffled his sobs instead, pretended he’d fallen back asleep.</p><p>But it was <i>Iris</i> and Iris always figured him out eventually, so she’d knocked again, said, <i>“I’m leaving someone to watch over you. He’ll keep all the nightmares away.”</i></p><p>And Barry hadn’t understood what she meant until the morning, when he found she’d left McSnurtle in front of his door, stationed like a guard in the hallway trying to keep him safe.)</p><p>Both of them sober at the shared memory, their laughter quieting into something softer.</p><p>Iris dips her head, strands of hair falling over her face, sleek as black satin, and Barry clutches the bowl tighter in his hands, resists the urge to set it down and brush her hair back for her.</p><p>“So,” she says, after a moment, “you never did tell me, did McSnurtle make everything okay?”</p><p>“Nah,” he says, shaking his head.</p><p>(And under his breath he murmurs:</p><p>“That was always <i>you.</i>”)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris sits on one end of the couch, typing on her laptop, her back against the armrest, and Barry’s on the other end, reading a book, while the college radio station plays on his phone. And Iris’ socked feet are thrown over Barry’s lap, the backs of her ankles hooked over his thighs, because the couch is too small for them both.<p>He hadn’t even noticed when she’d first slipped her feet on his lap, just obliged on autopilot, lifting his arms to make room for her when she’d nudged him, and then setting the book in his hands down on her calves, eyes never once looking up. </p><p>(Barry gets like that when he’s reading something that fascinates him. It’s like the book sucks him in and he’s unaware of anything, the rest of the world spinning around him unheard and unseen. It’s how Iris has gotten away with this sitting position for over half their lives. He always seems surprised when he eventually looks down and sees her feet on his lap, like he questions when on Earth it happened, but he never seems to mind, never pushes her off, just settles back down with his book.)</p><p>And Iris is just in the middle of typing a sentence when a new song on the station comes on, and she pauses, her fingers hovering above the black and white keys as she listens. </p><p>The beginning of the song is simple, just a few easy notes, melancholy and sweet, like a music box melody slowly unwinding once you’ve turned the key. And it only takes a moment for Iris to recognize it, and the tune takes her back, floods her head with images of the past.</p><p>(Low, dreamlike violet lights. Her silver dress sending reflections everywhere like scattered stardust. How Barry’s laugh mixed in with the music like it was the lyrics.)</p><p>Iris opens her mouth, starts to tell Barry <i>Hey, stop reading, you’ll never guess which song is on,</i> but when she looks up, she sees Barry’s already listening. Their connection to the song must be strong enough to distract him from reading, because his lips are quirked up to the side, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes for just a minute before his gaze meets hers.</p><p>“Prom,” he says, all matter-of-factly, like he’s just hit the buzzer on Jeopardy. “The song we danced to together.”</p><p>“You remembered.”</p><p>He taps the side of his head, “Steel trap. Did you really think I could forget?”</p><p>“Bear, you forgot what time your forensics science class started last week.”</p><p>“Well, yeah, but that was just a class,” he replies, waving his hand dismissively, as if the course that was dedicated to his future career somehow wasn't <i>important</i>. “It’s not like — I mean it wasn’t...”</p><p>He stops, trails off, looks like he realizes what he’s about to say aloud and shuts his mouth, stopping the words from coming out.</p><p>But Iris is curious now, so she tilts her head, asks, “Wasn't what?”</p><p>“You know,” he says shrugging, eyes back on his book. “It wasn’t you. Us. Something important like that.”</p><p>And there’s a beat of silence for a second, and then Barry looks up again, his gaze holding hers, eyes vivid green and sparkling even in the low evening light, and he says:</p><p>“You're my best friend, Iris. You’re all I ever remember.”</p><p>(He’s all she ever can remember too.</p><p>She’ll forget who she met and she’ll forget what was said, but Barry is always there — making up every single one of her memories, like her mind has left everything else behind but held onto him.</p><p>And her life is so entwined with his sometimes she feels like they’re stars in the sky, making up a constellation together, and you needed the both of them forever or else the picture could never be whole.) </p><p>Iris studies him for a second, sweeps her feet off his lap, stands, says, “Come on.”</p><p>Barry’s brows goes up, partly in confusion, partly in amusement, “What are we doing?”</p><p>“Dancing to the song we danced to at prom.”</p><p>He shakes his head, sinks back into the cushions, “I will tell you the exact same thing I told you back then: I can’t dance.”</p><p>“Barry, if that answer didn’t stop me then, do you really think it’s going to stop me now?”</p><p>(“Go have fun, Iris,” he kept telling her, gently unwrapping her fingers from the lapels of his jacket that she’d been trying to drag him out to the dance floor by. “Go dance with somebody who can.”</p><p>But the thing was, it just wasn’t fun without Barry by her side, and it hadn’t felt right to think she wouldn’t even dance with him once. </p><p>So she’d tried coaxing and threatening, then telling him dancing would be fun, that he shouldn’t sit in the corner alone, none of which worked, because he just kept stubbornly shaking his head.</p><p>And after all that, in the end, it had been simple.</p><p>In the end, all Iris had to do was hold out her hand, look up into his eyes, and say, “<i>Please</i>.”)</p><p>Iris pulls the same trick now, holding her hand out to him once again.</p><p>“Please,” she says. “For me?”</p><p>(Because here’s the worst kept secret about their relationship:</p><p>Barry can’t ever truly say no to her. He may think he can, but in the end, it’s all a lie, and he’ll give in to her every time. That boy would pin down the clouds if she asked him too.</p><p>She’d do exactly the same for him.)</p><p>Barry stares up at her eyes, sighs, tries to look away, but can’t.</p><p>“That’s not fair,” he informs her. “You can’t use the same trick twice.”</p><p>“I can if it works twice.”</p><p>“It’s cheating,” he argues, even as he rises off the couch for her. “You play dirty.”</p><p>“I play to win, Barry Allen,” she says. “You know that.”</p><p>He mutters under his breath just how much he knows it, and Iris ignores the comment, taking him by the hand and guiding him to the center of the living room, like she’s leading him out onto the dance floor.</p><p>And there’s no DJ or disco ball this time, but their curtains are open to the night outside, and the beams from the lights across the street are shining in through the window, all warm and low, giving the room a pale yellow glow, and their song is still spinning out, all dulcet and slow.</p><p>Iris reaches up, loosely wrapping her arms around him like she did at prom, only this time she’s wearing fuzzy socks instead of high heels, and she finds she has to stretch up even further just to reach the slope of his shoulders. </p><p>(Maybe one day she’ll stop marveling at just how much taller than her he really is.</p><p>Today’s not that day, though, because her eyes keep going up the length of him, like she’s studying some sort of statue in a museum.)</p><p>And his hands find their way to her back, his fingers spreading out against her spine, and she can feel the calming warmth from his hands soaking in through her shirt as his palms press up against her.</p><p>Then he glances down at their feet, like he’s trying to visualize a chart on the floor telling him where to step.</p><p>(“I can’t dance,” he’d blurted out at prom, as if she didn’t know, as if she cared. As if he didn’t realize she just wanted to dance with him because it was <i>him</i>, her best friend who made everything better. “I can hold your hand? And...sway?”</p><p>“Swaying’s fine.”)</p><p>“I still can’t dance, you know,” he tells her now.</p><p>“Just sway, Bear.”</p><p>He looks up in surprise, exhales a laugh, almost unconsciously pulls her half an inch closer, “You remember that conversation too, huh?”</p><p>“I remember everything.”</p><p>“You must remember this, then.”</p><p>And he slides his hand off her spine, reaches up to gently unwind her arm from around his neck, fingers catching her around her wrist, and Iris tilts her head in confusion, questioning what he’s doing, but then he steps back, lifts their intertwined hands...</p><p>And twirls her.</p><p>Iris smiles instantly, her laughter singing out as the world around her turns into a beautiful blur.</p><p>“I couldn’t believe you claimed you couldn’t dance and then pulled this move at prom,” Iris tells him. “I thought you’d been holding out on me.”</p><p>“I did the one move I knew that made it perfectly acceptable for me to stand still on the dance floor,” Barry retorts, and though Iris can only see flashes of his face while she spins, she can hear the humor in his voice. “You did the hard part and made the both of us look good.”</p><p>And then Barry winds her in back to him, her hair billowing out in the air around her like silk. Only they both misjudge the distance, and he pulls her in too close and she takes one step too many, and she finds herself pressed against him, her back flat against his chest, his arm curled tight around the front of her, the length of it laying right over her ribs, their hands still entwined. And they stand there like that for a moment, unmoving, tangled in an unexpected embrace, the melody still playing.</p><p>Iris turns her head to the side, slowly lifting her eyes to look up at him behind her. And from this close up, she can see the highlights of pale amber in his hair that falls over his forehead as he looks down at her, can see the way his freckles look like beautiful brushes of paint some artist carefully made on the canvas of his skin. And she can feel the very way he breathes, the way his inhales move in harmony with hers.</p><p>And then an odd look flashes across Barry’s face, fast as lightning, too fast for anyone who didn’t know him well to notice.</p><p>But Iris sees it.</p><p>“What is it?” she asks. “What are you thinking about?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“<i>Barry.</i>”</p><p>And there’s a stretch of silence between them, with only the song in the air, and then he says:</p><p>“If we were a real couple, this would be our first dance. You know, after the wedding.”</p><p>Iris is quiet for a minute. </p><p>“Yeah,” she says softly. “I guess it would be.”</p><p>And he spins her out again.</p><p>(And she spins back in.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry’s studying the first law of thermodynamics, about how the energy between things can never truly be created or destroyed, just be transferred or change in form, when he hears the familiar clink of keys and the soft echo of feet that means Iris is walking in through the door.<p>“The college newspaper’s throwing party,” Iris tells him as she comes in, trying to untangle the twisted strap of her crossbody bag and take off her long, heavy coat. “We’re invited.”</p><p>Barry rises, coming up behind her, lifting the bag off her shoulders, “<i>We’re</i> invited?” </p><p>“Well, Iris West-Allen and a Plus One. That’s <i>you</i>.”</p><p>Barry laughs, “Nice of them to mention me by name.”</p><p>“They might as well have,” she informs him as he helps her slip her arms out of her coat sleeves, the pad of his thumb skimming along her skin as he does. “You’re always going to be my plus one.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. And I’d better be yours too.”</p><p>“You know you are,” he says as he hangs her coat up, before adding, “I’ll keep that in mind next time I get an invite to a convention on the latest technological advancements in crime scene investigations. I’m sure you’d love it. It’s <i>lit</i>.”</p><p>“<i>Shut up,</i>” she says fondly. “You know I’d go with you. I went to that unbelievably nerdy regional college science fair with you our freshman year. I canceled a date for that thing too.”</p><p>“You canceled a date?” Barry asks, staring at her in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”</p><p>Why didn’t he know that?</p><p>Iris shrugs, “Guess I forgot to mention it.”</p><p>And then he remembers the timeline, remembers that was back when she was flirting with someone she claimed she crazy about. Remembers rolling his eyes into the back of his head as she talked about her crush’s biceps. She’d been, much to Barry’s chagrin, very, very into that guy.</p><p>And apparently she’d still canceled their date to hang out with Barry at a science fair.</p><p>“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, kind of confused. “You know I wouldn’t have been mad at you if you couldn’t make it, right?”</p><p>“Of course not, you're never mad at me.”</p><p>No, he wasn’t. Not really, not in any way that counted. He’s always been hard on himself, always pushed himself to be faster, to go further, and got mad when he couldn’t. But Iris...Iris was something else entirely, something sacred his anger couldn't touch.</p><p>(When he was ten, his heart splintered and shattered like glass, breaking into millions of little chipped pieces. And Iris had painstakingly picked them all up, one by one, held the jagged edges between her fingers and forged his heart back together with her bare hands. </p><p>It seemed unthinkable, to ever be truly angry at her, when she was the reason his heart was even still beating.)</p><p>“Then why’d you cancel?” Barry asks her, still wanting to know the answer. Because even though it’s all in the past, he still feels like it’s important, even though he doesn’t quite know why.</p><p>Iris blinks, takes a minute to think, like the question’s so simple it’s thrown her, like how easy breathing is until you finally think about it.</p><p>“I just didn’t consider <i>not</i> canceling,” she admits, kind of like she’s confessing it to herself almost as much as she is to him. “It wasn’t like it was a hard decision.”</p><p>“I thought you really liked him.”</p><p>“He was just some guy who asked me out, he wasn’t <i>you.</i> You’re my best friend, Barry,” Iris says. “And in the history of people who are important to me, he’d only have been a brief footnote at the bottom of the page, anyway.”</p><p>“And I get my own chapter?” he teases her, her words making him feel light, like even gravity can’t pin him down.</p><p>Iris laughs, shoves him, and as she turns to leave, she says:</p><p>“You get most of the book.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>It’s six A. M. and Iris is lying in bed. Her face is half buried in the duvet, and her hair’s covering the rest of her face, and it looks for all the world like she’s asleep.<p>She’s not, though. </p><p>She’s watching Barry.</p><p>(See, the thing about him is, he’s so much like a lightning strike. Unbelievably fast and impossibly bright and crackling with a sparkling energy that lights up his eyes.</p><p>But here’s something Iris is learning from sharing a bed with him while they wait for his room to be fixed: </p><p>There’s a world of difference in the way he moves first thing in the morning.)</p><p>So Iris looks at him now, out of the corner of her eye, pretending she’s not stealing glances every chance she gets.</p><p>And she watches as his green eyes come open half-lidded, and his lanky body starts moving all languid and slow. And he hums, low in his throat, his voice still rough and raspy from sleep, and he sinks down into the mattress for another second, like his bones are still too heavy to lift.</p><p>And then he rolls onto his back, stretching those long limbs of his, easy and measured and unhurried, and Iris thinks that if he’s usually a strike of lightning, then now he’s the first gentle tendrils of golden sunshine, slowly unfurling to touch the sky.</p><p>And then his eyes fully open, and it all slips through her fingers. </p><p>(You can’t hold onto sunbeams, after all.)</p><p>And now that he’s more alert and the shimmering energy’s edging back in his body, Iris pretends that she’s just waking up herself and slides to the edge of the bed, acting like she wasn't watching, that she doesn’t want to stay on the sheets that are all warm from his body.</p><p>But she kind of does.</p><p>And there’s a part of her that wonders what it would be like if she didn’t slip away so quickly. What she’d see if she didn’t have to only catch glimpses. What it’d feel like to spend a morning sleeping in.</p><p>And the fact that she’s even thinking about it surprises Iris, scares her. And she gets up, pulls on her bathrobe, tells herself <i>no,</i> to stop, that curiosity killed the cat.</p><p>(But the problem with being a writer is, Iris instantly remembers that around the turn of the twentieth century, a newspaper reporter sat down and added: </p><p><i>But satisfaction brought it back.</i>)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry stands in the shadows of the living room doorway, holding a cup of coffee, staring at Iris.<p>She’s sitting on the couch, working on an essay. Her gorgeously untamed natural curls are spilling over her shoulders and her face is fresh from the shower, and she’s wearing one of Barry’s flannel shirts, the red plaid one, the one she stole on a whim from his closet one day and has kept stealing ever since because she likes the feel of it. And she’s currently typing and biting her bottom lip, a writing habit she has when she’s trying to choose just which word to use. </p><p>And Barry knows Iris would try to say she doesn’t look her best, would slap his phone away if he tried to take a picture. But he wishes he could capture this moment of her sitting here, catch it in a photo or etch it in his memory in gold. Because she’s beautiful, so, so ridiculously beautiful and she makes the space feel exactly like home, and he just wants to live in this feeling forever, stretch this second out and wrap it around them, like he can hold on forever.</p><p>(But he can’t, time keeps slipping through his fingers like sand.)</p><p>Iris turns, noticing him in the doorway, and her pretty, dark eyes look tired and out of focus, like they’re still seeing Times New Roman font even though they’re looking at his face. But then she notices the coffee cup in his hands and she visibly brightens, like she’s just seen pure magic in liquid form.</p><p>Barry laughs, sets the coffee down in front of her, “Yeah, it’s for you. You’ve been working for so long I figured you needed it.”</p><p>And he turns to go, to let her work in peace, but Iris reaches out, catches his arm before he can slip away, sliding her hand down to squeeze his.</p><p>“Thanks, Bear,” she says, beaming up at him. “You’re a <i>life saver.</i> ”</p><p>He smiles at the feel of her hand in his, before glancing at her laptop screen, curious to see what she’s working so hard on.</p><p>“You’re writing a paper on...Orpheus and Eurydice?” </p><p>“Mmm,” Iris hums as she moves to take a sip of coffee. “You know, the Greek myth. About how, once, a man loved his wife so much, he walked through the underworld just to bring her back from the dead.”</p><p>“Oh,” Barry says, familiar with the story. How Orpheus is told he can lead Eurydice out of the underworld, just as long as he never once turns his head to check that she’s following him on the journey back. But, just when they’ve almost made it, he turns to look at her, and loses her forever. “The sad one.”</p><p>“I suppose, though my literature professor prefers to describe it as <i>romantic.</i> I can see why,” Iris says, “considering it’s about a husband who couldn’t face living in a world where he didn’t have his wife.”</p><p>And Iris’ words hit him like a hundred silver arrows suddenly piercing his skin, and Barry finds himself sitting down on the couch, like his legs are giving out, far too tired to keep standing.</p><p>
  <i>A husband who couldn’t face living in a world where he didn’t have his wife.</i>
</p><p>He knows the myth. He’s just never heard anyone put it quite like that.</p><p>Never felt like he could relate to it.</p><p>“It didn’t matter how much he loved his wife, though,” Barry says quietly, and the memory of the way the story went sinks in his stomach like a stone, like he’s seeing his own future echo. “After all that they went through, he still loses her in the end. His love fails him.” </p><p>“No, that’s not it,” Iris corrects Barry, before she thinks about it. “Well, it sort of is.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“His love for his wife is unwavering. He loves her so much that he’s terrified it’s all fake, <i>that’s</i> what makes him lose her.”</p><p>Barry stares, the parallel so painful he can feel his chest constrict, like the words have reached right in and given his heart a twist. </p><p>(He’s not a Greek tragedy, he tells himself. </p><p>And his head whispers back: <i>You might as well be.</i>)</p><p>“It can be hard,” Barry says finally, “to let go of your fear and have faith that everything will work out.”</p><p>“True,” Iris says, wrapping her hands around the warmth of her cup. “But that’s not the point. In the end, even if he loses her, it’s still a love story.”</p><p>Barry swallows, nods, “Guess some love stories are just like that. Never really understood the appeal of them.”</p><p>Iris raises her coffee to her lips, watches him through the wisps of steam wafting out from her cup for a second.</p><p>“I think it’s because everyone who hears the story can’t help but be struck by his love,” Iris says slowly, thinking out loud. “By the idea that this man would walk toward death because he couldn’t bear to lose his wife. People like to listen to it and think they can imagine loving someone that much.”</p><p>Barry stares at her. Stares at the shade of her eyes and the curve of her lips. Thinks of her courage and her wit, of her bravery and her love and the way she never gives up. And he knows, without a single shadow of doubt or ounce of regret that he’d run straight toward death just to bring her back from it, would run through fire for her, completely burn himself up just to die in her arms. </p><p>“Yeah,” he says voice soft, eyes meeting hers. “I can kind of imagine it too.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Iris and Barry stand in the kitchen side by side, him washing the dishes while she dries.<p>It’s inherently domestic, something new that Iris would say they're not used to, but the both of them have fallen into an effortless rhythm that feels easy and right. And Iris watches Barry, humming softly to himself as he washes a dish, delicate, filmy soap suds slipping between his fingers.</p><p>“I can make breakfast tomorrow since you made dinner tonight,” she volunteers.</p><p>Barry pauses, dish in his raised hands, the soap suds slowly spiraling down the lean muscles in his forearms.</p><p>“You’ll make me a banana?” he guesses.</p><p>“I’ll make you and McSnurtle both bananas.”</p><p>Barry blinks, cocks his head, an odd smile on his face, like he’s half charmed, half amused.</p><p>“You’re making me the same breakfast as McSnurtle?” he asks, and his voice sounds the way it always does when he’s trying hard not to laugh.</p><p>(Iris <i>knows</i> that voice.)</p><p>“Fine, instead of two bananas, I can make a banana and a smoothie,” she amends, her voice smug. “<i>McSnurtle</i> can have the smoothie.”</p><p>Barry stares. Raises his hand, flicks a soap sud at her.</p><p>Iris clicks her tongue, swipes the suds off her shoulder with two fingers, “That’s completely childish, Barry.”</p><p>And he immediately look guilty, like a freckled, scolded puppy, and he’s just opening his mouth, no doubt to apologize, when she flicks the suds right back at him, laughing in delight at his look of surprise.</p><p>“<i>This</i>,” he says, “is exactly why your dad banned us from doing the dishes together when we were kids.”</p><p>Iris hums in agreement, rests her hand on her hip, “I would’ve destroyed you, anyway.”</p><p>And her words make Barry’s green eyes glitter dangerously with something that’s part mischief, all magic, as his gaze slowly travels down her and he asks, “Was that a dare, <i>Iris</i>?”</p><p>(And Iris has seen that glint in his eyes for years, knows the exact way they sparkle like there’s stardust caught in them when she presents him with a challenge that he just can’t resist.</p><p>She’s grown up with that look, seen it a lot considering how naturally competitive she is. Has been on the receiving end of it whenever she dares him to do better than her at anything from bowling to darts to laundry. Except this time, though the look’s the same, it feels slightly different. Just a bit more electric, and a little more magnetic compared to how she remembers it.)</p><p>“It wasn’t a dare,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “It was a statement, <i>Barry.</i>”</p><p>He smirks, and before she can even blink, he scatters a handful of frothy white soap suds at her like it’s freshly fallen snow. And Iris yelps, smacks him across the chest with her dish towel before he can dodge, and then he squirts the soap bottle at her, filling the air with iridescent soap bubbles that shimmer lavender as they catch the light and fall over her hair like fairy dust.</p><p>“We’re probably way too old for this now,” Barry admits, but he’s smiling so wide, she can see the dimple in his cheeks that only happens when he’s at his happiest.</p><p>“We’re <i>definitely</i> too old for this,” Iris replies.</p><p>Then she makes him gasp out her name as she snatches the sprayer nozzle off the sink and sprays him with a steady stream of water.</p><p>And his dark green shirt gets soaked, sticking to him, molding to the shape of his toned body like a second skin. And Iris can clearly see the devastatingly defined lines of his chest against the drenched material, and the way the muscles in his stomach stretch as he takes in a deep breath.</p><p>And the sight of Barry’s wet shirt clinging to the curl of his biceps and the contours of his abs distracts her so much that Iris doesn’t even notice how he’s tactically inching toward her, coming closer, until the small of her back hits the sink, and she realizes he’s trapped her against the counter, his quick, clever fingers coming up over hers to wrestle the sprayer away from her. </p><p>And they stand there for a minute, trying to come down from their adrenaline high, her against the sink, his long, lanky body wet body leaning down over her frame, keeping her in place against the counter, both of them panting from laughing so hard. And Iris can feel the wet heat radiating off him from the warmth of his body mixing with his newly soaked shirt, and she’s close enough that she could reach out and trace the hard planes of his chest with her hands if she dared. </p><p>Iris exhales, forces her eyes to move up to his, announces, “I win.”</p><p>Barry hangs his head, lets out a low groan in the back of his throat, but he’s close enough that she can catch a glimpse of his hidden smile as he says:</p><p>“You won our first dishwashing fight too.”</p><p>And then, because she’s not sure she’s ever told him, Iris says, “I only started that fight for you.”</p><p>(It’d been half a year after Barry’s living nightmare, and he was crying less, which was good, but he also hadn’t laughed once in all those months.</p><p>And it hurt, it hurt <i>so much</i>, because when Iris first met him on the playground she thought he looked like the happiest boy in the world. But now it was like she was seeing something she once thought was pure and untouchable break down right in front of her eyes, like she was watching Icarus fall, burning wings leaving smoke in the sky. </p><p>And she wanted to do anything, anything at all just to make him look happy again, even just for second. Which was why, when Barry stood there solemnly helping her with the dishes, she’d sent a cascade of soap bubbles at him, just to see if she could get him laughing.)</p><p>Barry smiles at her now, only it’s different than before. Softer, sweeter, like the memory’s playing through his head too.</p><p>“I don’t think I ever thanked you for that,” he says, meeting her gaze. “For making me laugh again, when I thought I no longer knew how.”</p><p>Iris takes him in, thinks never hearing his laugh again would’ve been a tragedy, like some kind of incomplete symphony, or lyrics without a melody. </p><p>She’s not sure which one of them it would’ve destroyed more.</p><p>“You don’t need to thank me,” she says, nudging his toe with her own. “Besides, I got my winnings, remember?” </p><p>(“I win,” her ten year-old self had declared. “Now you owe me your solemn promise of eternal devotion and that I’ll be your best friend for the rest of your life.”</p><p>And she hadn’t meant it, just said it as a joke to make him laugh. </p><p>Only Barry hadn’t laughed, just nodded.</p><p>“Okay,” he’d whispered, like it was a pledge. “<i>Okay.</i>”)</p><p>“Right,” Barry says now. “You soaked me to the bone and won my promise of eternal devotion and that you’ll be my best friend as long as I live.” He nods once, very solemnly, as if they’re discussing something serious. “A noble choice of a prize.”</p><p>“It’ll always be my favorite thing I’ve ever won,” Iris replies, her voice light, like it’s all a joke, although she’s not really sure it is. “Until I win my Pulitzer, obviously.”</p><p>“<i>Obviously.</i> Nothing beats a Pulitzer.”</p><p>They both laugh, low and sweet and easy, and then Barry reaches his hand out toward her, soft pad of his thumb skimming over her temple and into her hair, his fingers tender and gentle as he brushes away a stray soap bubble, and Iris’ eyes flutter shut, just for a second, lost in his touch.</p><p>And then he says, softly, so softly she almost doesn’t hear:</p><p>“You still have that solemn promise, you know.”</p><p>Iris swallows, nods, but her gaze isn’t quite able to meet his, so she reaches out to brush a soap sud off his shirt instead, her hand falling right above the beat of his heart, and she whispers:</p><p>“You have mine too.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry’s in the living room, absorbed in reading Harrison Wells’ new biography, when he hears the sound of Iris’ shoes clicking on the floor. And he figures she’s probably coming to say goodbye before she leaves, because that reporter that she met on the day of the fire, Lois, is back in town and has invited her to dinner.<p>“Almost ready?” he asks Iris, not looking up, trying to steal another second to read. “I can keep you company while wait with you downstairs, if you want.”</p><p>And then he turns the page, engrossed in the book, because Wells is talking about developing —</p><p>“Zip me up?”</p><p>Barry’s eyes freeze mid-sentence, mind stuttering, like he’s suddenly forgotten what every word means, and when he looks up, he finds Iris standing right in front of him, wearing a short dress in deep red. And it’s the exact shade of burning sunsets or of fiery Venus, and it looks right at home her, like she’s part Phoenix, something dazzling born out of flames.</p><p>And she stands there, looking gorgeous, throwing an amused look at the open book in his hands, like she thinks that that’s what has him in a trance.</p><p>“Zip me up,” Iris repeats, only this time she says it less like a question and more like a command.</p><p>Then she turns around, and Barry swallows hard at the sight of the dress’ zipper undone all the way down to the low dip of her back. And he rises, takes a step toward her, then another, slowly coming up behind her, and when he gets closer, his exhale hits her, brushing over her the bare skin of her shoulder, and she shivers.</p><p>“Sorry,” he murmurs, keeping the word beneath his breath, and it’s like there’s a muted rhythm pulsating between them, like his heartbeat’s echoing in the air.</p><p>And her dark hair cascades down her back, right in the path of the zipper, so he cups his hand, ever so slowly slides it up beneath the silken strands, gently gathering them in his palm, and his fingers brush against her soft, bare skin as he does, in the space right between the sharp curves of her shoulder blades.</p><p>Then he sweeps her hair up, carefully tucking it over her shoulder, his thumb trailing along her collarbone before it falls away. And now that her hair’s off her back, he can see so much more of her skin, so much in places he hasn’t seen before.</p><p>(Hasn't touched before. </p><p>Still can’t touch now.)</p><p>And his eyes fall over the smooth curve where her back arches inward, and he reaches for the delicate gold zipper waiting there, takes it between his thumb and forefinger, and slowly but firmly tugs it up.</p><p>And Barry’s got her halfway zipped up, when his eyes lock onto something:</p><p>There’s a tiny little scar on her spine.</p><p>It’s small, so small, and it’s just a little jagged, almost like a lightning bolt.</p><p>(And it feels like an epiphany, or unexpected miracle, finding out something new about the person he’s known for so long and loves so much.)</p><p>“You have a scar,” he says softly, and he reaches out to touch it as if on instinct, but comes to his senses, stops himself before he can.</p><p>Curls his fingers into fists so he won’t do something stupid.</p><p>“From when we went sledding,” Iris says, and he can’t see her face, but he can tell that she’s smiling. “In the summer. Down the <i>stairs</i>.”</p><p>He laughs lightly, “That wasn’t our best idea.”</p><p>“It was still better than our idea of stealing my dad’s convertible.”</p><p>“Hey,” he protests quietly. “I thought we agreed to never speak of the great convertible incident of the late nineteen-nineties.”</p><p>“No, we agreed to never speak of the convertible incident to <i>anyone else</i>,” Iris corrects him. “I can bring it up to <i>you</i> as much as I want. We tell each other everything.” </p><p>Right. Everything. Like the letter. Like how much he loves her, has <i>always</i> loved her. </p><p>But he doesn't say anything, finishes zipping her up instead, his hand lingering along the back of her neck.</p><p>(Everything he’s ever wanted, right at the tips of his fingers.</p><p>But she’s not his.</p><p>And it aches and it aches and it <i>aches</i>)</p><p>“You know,” Iris says, her voice soft and slow, like she’s thinking out loud, “I didn't get a single scratch from the convertible incident, but I’m still scarred from something as simple as sliding down the stairs. It’s funny how sometimes it’s the unexpected, little things that leave their mark on you. You know what I mean?”</p><p>And Barry thinks of the way she sometimes falls asleep with her wedding ring still on her finger, and how it glitters when the pale moonlight washes over her. Thinks of the cadence of her breathing when she sleeps, and the added curl of the cursive she gives her last name when she signs <i>Iris West-Allen</i>. And the way he woke up once to find her hand curled almost possessively over his heartbeat in her sleep. </p><p>(As if she needed to be possessive. As if his heart’s ever beat for anyone else but her.)</p><p>And he knows that millions of other unexpected, little things like those will linger with him for long after they’re no longer married.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says. “I know what you mean.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>When Iris walks into the bathroom to use the mirror, she finds Barry shaving.<p>(And she knows she shouldn’t stare. She <i>knows</i> she shouldn’t.</p><p>But she does anyway.)</p><p>And she stands there, taking in the way his head’s tilted back, leaving the long, tender arc of his throat exposed. The way stray beads of water glide all the way down it to caress his collarbones. The way his hand holding the razor is moving in strong, steady strokes.</p><p>(Now that she’s sharing a bed with him, she’s been able to notice the pale shadow of stubble he wakes up with, the way it plays across his face, and shades his upper lip and cheeks and throat. </p><p>She’s never really thought about him shaving it off before, but now she’s fascinated by the way the silver blades remove a strip of stubble to reveal freckles and smooth skin.)</p><p>“Iris?” Barry asks, glancing out of the corner of his eye, finally noticing her, the razor paused along the startlingly sharp line of his jaw.</p><p>And they hold each other’s gaze in silence for a second, and Iris can’t help but feel like there’s something simmering between them, like a flame slowly eating away at a candle wick, burning it bit by bit.</p><p>“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I was just going to put my lipstick on. I’ll come back when you’re done.” </p><p>“Oh,” he blinks in surprise. “Stay, it’s okay.”</p><p>And then he steps to the side so they can share the space.</p><p>Iris hesitates for a second, staring at the spot he made for her, before stepping into it. And they stand there in silence, side by side, completing their morning routine. And it doesn’t feel awkward, it just feels comfortable. Intimate. Like maybe they really are married. </p><p>And Iris knows that if they were in another universe, if they were actually, properly husband and wife — this would just be <i>normal.</i> A completely ordinary, typical morning in their day to day life. And there’d be no reason to even remark on it.</p><p>She can’t help but wonder what it would be like to live like that. </p><p>And then her eyes make their way from her reflection in the mirror to his, watching how the white shaving cream on his face slides away to reveal his constellation of freckles, like clouds parting for the stars. And another thought comes unbidden, slipping inside her mind like a thief in the night: </p><p>She doesn’t know what it’s like to kiss Barry. </p><p>And Iris pauses at the thought, lipstick halfway on.</p><p>She kissed him at their courtroom wedding, light and fleeting, and then once again, faster than quicksand, to prove a point to Professor Mason, but Barry hadn’t even kissed her back that second time. But those didn’t count, not really. </p><p>And then Iris thinks of the supply closet, of the darkness wrapped around them like the night, of the way he’d nearly kissed her then, but <i>didn’t</i>. Of the way he’d carried her to bed and the way his body had curved over hers in the kitchen and the way his hands had felt as they zipped her into her dress. </p><p>And they’ve both been avoiding talking about any of it, like they’re dancing around this tension that’s building between them, scared of what’ll happen if they make a false move.</p><p>(Except it’s been seeming more and more lately like her and Barry keep dancing right on the edge of the abyss, a step away from plunging into the unknown.</p><p>And Iris...</p><p>Iris wonders if maybe it’s time that they both just fell in.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Barry’s at home when his cellphone chimes.<p>And, normally, he wouldn’t check the alert right away, but he’s set up notifications for news about <i>Iris West-Allen.</i></p><p>Not only did Iris’ exposé make the headline, but it made <i>waves</i>. People are calling Iris a promising young journalist, a future Pulitzer winner, someone to watch out for, because she’ll only get bigger and better and shine even brighter. And Barry knows all that of course — he’s known it for <i>years</i>, knew she was something back when he read the very first article she ever wrote and was blown away by her prose — but he likes watching the rest of the world grow to learn just how wonderful Iris is too.</p><p>(Iris has often referred to him as a lightning strike, but if he’s a strike of lightning, then he thinks Iris is a full-on storm, a devastatingly beautiful force of nature whose power could blow you away.)</p><p>But when Barry pulls out his phone, he sees the alert isn’t for new media on <i>Iris West-Allen</i>, it’s for a new email in his inbox. It’s one from the college, and it’s titled <i>In Case You Missed Our Letter</i> and...</p><p>
  <i>No.</i>
</p><p>No, no, no, no.</p><p>The college emailed out the policy updates on divorce.</p><p>And if he just got one in his inbox, then that means Iris did too.</p><p>(The realization’s like being sucker-punched, like falling onto asphalt and having all the air leave his lungs.)</p><p>All this time hiding the letter, all this time trying to work up the courage to tell her, and it ends up being all for nothing. </p><p>He’s been stupid, he thinks. So, so stupid, and he screwed up because now Iris is going to be reading the news from some screen instead of hearing it from his own lips. Because she’s not even at home now, she’s working late at the college newsroom tonight. And he won’t be there to gauge her reaction, to see if she’s relieved, if them being together like this never meant anything more than being best friends. And he’s not there to beg her to stay, to explain that somewhere along the way, their fake marriage started to feel <i>real.</i> And the newsroom’s close enough to the administration building that if Iris read her email at work, she could technically pick up new funding paperwork on her way home. Or fill out a form to change her name on the college files. </p><p>And then she won’t be Iris West-Allen anymore.</p><p>The thought’s like the sky’s come unpinned, like it’s only made of paper and it’s falling down all around him. And suddenly the lights are much too bright and the night rain hitting the window pane is far too loud and he can do nothing but drop down to the couch and stare at the alert for <i>Iris West-Allen</i> on his phone. </p><p>And as he stares down at her name, he realizes that it’s become his favorite series of words in the world, the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.</p><p>(And Barry has heard the Latin names of flowers, and sonnets rolling off the tongue. Has sat in class and studied the names of distant constellations recorded in Ancient Greek, but nothing, <i>nothing</i> in the universe sounds as good to him as the name <i>Iris West-Allen</i> does.</p><p>Some of him and all of her, together in one name.</p><p>And he’s terrified of never hearing it again.)</p><p>And here’s the thing: he spent years not telling her he loves her so he wouldn’t lose his best friend.</p><p>But now he’ll lose his best friend <i>and</i> his <i>wife</i>. </p><p>(And he doesn’t want to be Orpheus, doesn’t want to go through all this just to lose the woman he married at the last second just because he’s scared it’s all fake.)</p><p>And before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s getting up off the couch and grabbing his umbrella.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>It’s funny, how <i>quietly</i> you can receive life-changing news, how it can slip in when you’re doing something mundane and thinking it’s just another day.<p>When you think of being told something that effects your whole life, you think of a scene in a movie, something big and loud, dramatic and tense. The shouted news hitting you like a canon’s boom, your shaking hands feeling like they can shake the room.</p><p>You just never expect it when you’re doing something simple and boring like brushing your teeth or pouring your coffee or folding your laundry.</p><p>Or checking your email as you work late and wait on hold on the newsroom’s phone, listening to awful hold music.</p><p>But that’s exactly how Iris sees the letter from the college about the updated funding and divorce policy.</p><p>She opens her inbox, clicks on the letter, and there it is, seven lines down, a single life-changing sentence in such nondescript little font next to an inconspicuous black dot:</p><p>
  <i>Married students who applied for and received funding due to their marital status will now have the option of filing for divorce and returning to an unmarried status without losing any of their pre-determined financial aid.</i>
</p><p>And Iris sits there, clutching the newsroom phone tighter as she processes the sentence.</p><p>(Reading the email should not feel like having a pane of glass suddenly shattering right in her bare hands, little crystal pieces spilling over her fingers, sharp edges pricking her palms.</p><p>Or like seeing a dagger plunging through the middle of a Monet, the silver blade ripping the canvas.</p><p>But, somehow, it still does.)</p><p>She should text Barry, Iris thinks numbly. Ask him if he’s seen it yet. Ask him when he wants to file for divorce. </p><p>Except she doesn’t text him. She just sits there, paralyzed, the upbeat, tinny hold music from the newsroom’s phone still playing in her ear, like a soundtrack that doesn’t quite match up with a movie scene. </p><p>And then her gaze drifts to her desk, to the newspaper sitting there, with her article as the headline and the name <i>Iris West-Allen</i> on the byline.</p><p>The name that will no longer be hers.</p><p>And it’s nonsensical, but the idea of giving up the <i>Allen</i> part of her name <i>Iris West-Allen</i> makes Iris feel like digging in her heels, feel like fighting back, because the plan her and Barry agreed on, once upon a time in a coffee shop, always had this ending in divorce, she <i>knows</i> that, but here’s the thing: </p><p>She’s not very good at letting go of Barry Allen.</p><p>Never has been.</p><p>(She remembers being ten and Barry getting bullied when he went back to school and the story of his parents was splashed all over the news. And she’d held onto his hand every single step in the hallway, stubbornly not letting go, snarling at anyone who dared to say a word, like she’d love to rip out their throat.</p><p>And she remembers being sixteen and lying in the hospital bed after her appendix was taken out. And in a dreamlike haze of post-surgery drugs, she’d reached out for Barry’s hand because all she wanted was <i>him</i>. And he stayed by her side all night, their fingers entwined because she flat-out refused to let go and he never even thought of telling her no.)</p><p>Letting him go, even the tiniest fraction of him, isn’t something Iris has ever done.</p><p>She’s never learned how.</p><p>Never wanted to.</p><p>And, the thing is, when she’d first come up with this plan, she didn’t think there would really be anything new to give up, anything she’d learn to live with and then have to learn to live without. </p><p>Except, there <i>is</i>.</p><p>Things she never thought of before.</p><p>Things she never calculated.</p><p>Like surfacing awake in the middle of the night and seeing him by her side, his presence soothing her back to sleep like a lullaby. Or how she’ll introduce him to people as her husband and he’ll beam with pride, like out of everyone else in the world, he’d be proud if she really was his wife.</p><p>
  <i>“What do you want?”</i>
</p><p>Iris startles for a minute at the sudden question in her ear, thrown until she remembers, <i>that’s right</i>, she’s still clutching the newsroom’s phone, and there’s no more hold music playing, so that must mean someone’s now on the other end of the line.</p><p>And the person is asking:</p><p>
  <i>What do you want?</i>
</p><p>And Iris —</p><p>Iris thinks of Barry.</p><p>Of the shade of his eyes. Of the sound of his laugh. Of the feel of his hands as he slipped his mother’s ring on her finger. How she stood in a courtroom and swore to be his wife.</p><p>Of the way it’s been feeling like there’s been something happening between them, something beautifully inevitable, like two stars that are so close and burning so bright and so drawn to each other that they have no choice but to collide.</p><p>And then other memories come, one by one, like a crescendo of music, slowly building up:</p><p>Barry sweetly brushing her hair back for her when it falls in her face and her arms are full of groceries. Barry brewing her coffee so she can have five extra minutes of sleep. Barry in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, softly humming melodies. Barry next to her in the morning, his body warming the sheets. </p><p>All the little things between them she’s grown to love. </p><p>All the little things between them she’d have to give up.</p><p>And the thought of her letting them go, of never living through them again makes her curl her fingers tighter around her phone.</p><p>Tighter and tighter and <i>tighter</i>. </p><p><i>“What do you want?”</i> the voice on the phone repeats, louder this time.</p><p>She wants...</p><p>She wants those moments. All of them.</p><p>She wants <i>Barry.</i></p><p>Every day. For the rest of their lives. </p><p>And the thought is like a lightning strike, illuminating the sky, or a fire igniting, sparkling and bright, flooding her mind with a burst of light.</p><p>And Iris throws the phone down, leaps up, racing toward the door, not caring that it’s dark out, not caring that it’s raining, not caring that she has no umbrella.</p><p>She just wants to get to Barry, get to him before he sees the email, before he slips out of her hands.</p><p>(She remembers being ten, standing on the staircase, seeing Barry down below.</p><p>And she’d reached out for him, and he’d taken her hand like she was salvation and he was drowning in a storm, and she’d thought:</p><p>
  <i>I’m never letting go.</i>
</p><p>And she’s still not letting go.</p><p>Not now.</p><p>Not ever.)</p><p>And she <i>runs.</i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>The falling rain is catching in the glow of the flickering streetlights, making the raindrops look like golden lightning strikes, and Barry is running.<p>Faster than he ever has before.</p><p>And the rain comes down hard on his umbrella, but he barely hears it, barely sees the gold streetlight reflections on the watery pavement that make it look like wavy energy’s trailing under his feet. </p><p>The only thought on his mind is:</p><p>He doesn’t want to go through life never hearing the name <i>Iris West-Allen</i> again.</p><p>And so he runs, past the housing, past the gates, past the other buildings, toward <i>Iris</i>. And he’s just reaching the science building, the halfway point to the newsroom, when he sees that placebo poster again out of the corner of his eye.</p><p><i>Real or fake?</i> the poster says. </p><p>And Barry thinks:</p><p>
  <i>Time to find out.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>She loves Barry.<p>
  <i>She loves him, she loves him, she loves him.</i>
</p><p>The words are echoing in everything: In the rainfall, in the thud of her shoes as she runs, in the beat of her heart. Because now that she has the thought, the melody of it is everywhere and refuses to stop.</p><p>And Iris doesn’t <i>want</i> it to stop, doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to not hear it now that she’s finally understood. </p><p>And the understanding is new, but the emotion isn’t. Because if this is what love feels like — and it is, it’s <i>got</i> to be, she’s sure of it — then she must have never <i>not</i> loved him, must’ve been in love with him for so long and in so many ways and never stopped to untangle them all. </p><p>Because what he is to her has long escaped definition: Best friend. Anchor. Partner. Soulmate. Husband. Barry Allen’s so many things that he’s become her everything.</p><p>And she never thought about falling in love with him, because how could she? The falling came ages and ages ago when they first met, in a flash, in an instant, in a glorious split-second in time. She’d already been in love with him for nearly every single day of her life, she just never considered examining an emotion that had always been there, something that was so ingrained in her that it was as natural as breathing.</p><p>(Because that is exactly how she loves him, like it’s woven into her very being, like it’s everywhere in every part of her, flowing in her blood, written on her skin.)</p><p>And then, almost as if her sheer wanting has conjured him up out of thin air:</p><p>She sees him.</p><p>Barry, right there in front of her, on the rainy street.</p><p>And Iris comes to a stop, sliding on the slick sidewalk, water parting for her boots as she shouts out his name.</p><p>“Iris?” Barry stares at her in surprise, as if <i>she’s</i> the one who’s suddenly materialized. “Iris, what are you doing?”</p><p>And he falls to a sudden stop, reaches out and pulls her under the umbrella with him, holding it over them both. And they stand there for a minute, right in the rain, right in front of the science building, right in front of the poster of placebos on the wall, her hands holding onto his forearms, his hand on her waist, both of them stunned senseless, breathless from running.</p><p>“There’s something I have to tell you,” Iris says, still trying to catch her breath, her words coming out in a curl of fog in the cold night air.</p><p>Barry’s hand on her waist tightens for just a second, before it falls away, and there’s something in his eyes that aches.</p><p>“I’m too late, aren’t I?” he asks. “You already saw the news about the divorce policy.”</p><p>“No. Yes. I — ” Iris pauses, his words finally processing. “Wait, you read the letter too?”</p><p>“Days ago,” Barry admits, and Iris stares at him for a second, his confession echoing loudly in her head. <i>Days ago.</i> Barry said he found out he could divorce her <i>days ago.</i> </p><p>“I didn’t tell you,” Barry continues. “And I should’ve, I know I should’ve, I just — ” he stops mid-sentence, staring at her helplessly, as if he knows his words will never be enough to do justice to everything he feels. “I just didn’t want to. It was selfish, and wrong, but I didn’t want to.”</p><p>And Iris’ heart’s beating in her ears now, so loudly it nearly drowns out the rain, and she asks, “Why didn’t you want to?”</p><p>And he looks at her like the reasons are too numerous to ever list them all out loud.</p><p>“I like living with you in a place of our own. I like being married to you. I <i>love</i> being married to you, Iris,” he says, and he grips the umbrella tighter as he says it, fingers curling around the handle like he wishes it were her hand instead.</p><p>“And I want this,” he confesses. “All of it. Even the boring and the messy parts. The way our couch is too small and the walls are too thin and the way you scold me for even thinking of buying us a brand of decaffeinated brand of coffee. The way you burn the toast and the way you text me to pick up cream and the way you talk to McSnurtle when you think I’m not listening. <i>All</i> of it.”</p><p><i>He loves her,</i> Iris realizes. <i>He loves her as much as she loves him.</i></p><p>(And the thought is a beautiful epiphany, like something life changing, like seeing the dawn break in an instant or learning the length of infinity.)</p><p>“Barry — ”</p><p>But it’s like he can’t stop now that he’s finally found the courage to tell her all he needs to.</p><p>“The truth is, now that I know what a life with you is like, I don’t think I can go back to one where you’re not my wife,” he tells her. “And I know that you didn’t really choose to marry me on your own but — ”</p><p>“That’s not true,” Iris interrupts, fingers curling around his arm. “Barry, don’t you see? There are guys I’ve dated, guys who I knew would marry me, like Eddie and Scott, but I never even <i>considered</i> being married to them, even just on paper, even for a second.”</p><p>She slides her hand down his arm to his wrist, enjoying the feel of his heartbeat right against her fingertips.</p><p>“<i>You’re</i> the only one I wanted when I first thought of marrying someone, Barry,” Iris says, her voice rising above the rain. “So don’t think I wouldn’t ever choose you, don’t you <i>dare</i> think that, because I <i>did</i>. And I’d choose you, over and over again, anytime, anywhere, over anyone else in the world.”</p><p>And there’s hope alight in Barry’s eyes, but there’s fear there too, like this is everything he’s ever wanted but he’s scared it’s all a lie. </p><p>“Iris — ” he stops, breathes out a laugh. “Iris, what are you — ”</p><p>“I love you,” Iris professes.</p><p>(And she says it like a poem, like a vow, like something she doesn’t want to ever stop saying now that she knows how.)</p><p>“I <i>love</i> you, Barry Allen,” she says again, just because she wants to, just because it’s <i>true</i>, and she wants to tell him more, wants to tell him all the ways she loves him. </p><p>(But the thing is, when what you have escapes definition, it can be hard to find the right words to say.</p><p>Sometimes, you just have to show someone.</p><p>So Iris does that now.)</p><p>She reaches up, brings her mouth to his, and Barry falls still for a moment, lost against the touch of her lips.</p><p>But then his free hand falls to her hip, and he spins her, backs her up and pins her to the wall of the science building, right up against the poster of placebos, and the movement is fluid and swift, completely unexpected, and Iris gasps against his mouth, and he drinks it in.</p><p>And the umbrella he’s holding in his other hand tips back, falling out of his grasp, like Barry can’t be bothered to hold onto it when he could be holding her instead, and without it’s cover, rain settles into Barry’s hair and catches on his lashes, glistening like diamonds, then gliding onto her. But Iris doesn’t care, <i>can’t</i> care, not when he’s both making her whole and making her come completely undone in his arms.  </p><p>And the glow of the streetlights washes over them both, making the world look like it was dreamed up by Van Gogh, painted in shades of the deepest blue and brightest gold. And all Iris can think is: So <i>this</i> is what it feels like to have Barry Allen kiss you, <i>really</i> kiss you, kiss you like he <i>means</i> it. Because this isn’t at all like their quick, cautious fake kisses before. This time, there’s no hesitation, only hunger as he kisses her, hot-breathed and opened mouthed and tasting like a rainstorm, making her skin glow wherever his hands go. And she gasps in a breath while he exhales, her chest going out as his goes in so that their bodies arc together. And it’s euphoric, hypnotic, like he’s magic and she’s spellbound, slowly becoming unwound.</p><p>And they move in perfect sync, like instinct, easy as breathing, the length of his body curling over the curve of hers, covering her from the rainfall, letting it come down on him instead. And Iris can feel the sheer <i>want</i> from Barry, feel him taking the raw ache of yearning from every single one of their near kisses and their years of missed chances and pouring it all into this moment. And she can taste the autumn rain on him, feel the longing burning through his skin like it’s lined with sparks of lightning, and she arches up even closer, ready to claim him again and again and again.</p><p>(And it’s like she’s drunk just from his touch, like she’s losing her mind and coming alive, seeing white-hot stars implode behind her eyes. And it’s breathtaking, intoxicating, like rapture or rhapsodies out in the rain.)</p><p>Then Barry breaks away, his chest heaving under her hands, and when he looks down at her, his face looks so open and terrified and in love all at once.</p><p>“I love you,” he says, his voice all breathless and desperate and raw. “I <i>love</i> you, but I was stupid and scared and spent years not telling you.”</p><p>“Years?”</p><p>“Since the moment I met you,” he admits. “I just never let you know exactly how much.”</p><p>And the rain makes the pavement glitter even in the dark, and the puddles mirror the lamplight, like they’re holding fiery stars, and Iris reaches up, runs her thumb along his jaw.</p><p>“So let me know now,” she dares him softly.</p><p>He stares down at her, long lashes framing his gaze as his eyes sweep over her, like he’s mentally detailing everything he wants to say. And then he steps closer into her space, hands coming up to caress her face, and he dips his head down, his parted lips hovering above her mouth for a moment, like he’s lost in the sensation of her.</p><p>And then he kisses her, kisses her so ardently, deliberately <i>slow</i>. So slow it’s beautiful, so beautiful it aches.</p><p>(It’s like a melody gently unwinding, like he’s bringing her to life when they touch, like the man who speeds through everything wants to take his time with her, wants to kiss her <i>right</i>. Wants to take care to have his mouth unmistakably spell out what it’s been failing to for years.)</p><p>And he sinks further into her, like his body’s made of something soft and easy, smooth as honey, made to melt over the shape of her. And she gasps again, presses in, reveling in the taste of him.</p><p>And his fingers lace through her hair as he tilts her head back, cradling it in his deft, gentle hands. And he breathes her in, his eyelashes fluttering softly against her skin, his kiss open and long and lingering, as if he’s composing a love letter or completely handing over his heart to her. And she goes breathless as his hands slide down her spine to trace words on the small of her back, writing <i>I love you</i> on her body over and over again, etching them in gold across her skin, fingers running over her in tender reverence.</p><p>Then he pulls away just enough to whisper, “I’ve loved you before I even knew what love was. You gave the word definition.”</p><p>And she stares up at him, at the delicate raindrops adorning his long lashes, at his green eyes in the rain, at the sheer amount of love on his face, and she smiles, big and wide and unbridled. </p><p>(And Iris can <i>feel</i> it, the way he loves her unconditionally, <i>infinitely</i>. Enough that it eclipses everything else. Spans the universe then swallows it whole.</p><p>She loves him the exact same way.)</p><p>She intwines her arms around him, dips her head, smiles into the curve of his neck, says, “That was some confession.”</p><p>He laughs, soft and lingering, the sound mixing in with the rain, “Yeah?”</p><p>“There’s nothing else in this world that could sound better than what you just said.”</p><p>“I can think of something,” he murmurs against her mouth. “My favorite thing I’ve heard in all my time on Earth.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>And he leans in closer, lips brushing against her ear...</p><p>And he whispers her name.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Iris <i>West-Allen</i> is definitely the best thing Barry Allen’s ever heard.</p><p>And Iris would have to agree.</p><p>I) The next chapter/epilogue’s coming next!</p><p>II) Yes, I changed Barry’s Season 1 line from “<i>I loved you before I even knew what the word love meant</i>,” to “<i>I’ve loved you before I even knew what love was. You gave the word definition.”</i> No, I don’t care that I’m messing with an iconic canon quote.</p><p>III) Barry’s studying the first law of thermodynamics when Iris walks in during the scene where they talk about her past and her canceling a date to be with her best friend, because the first law basically says that energy can never truly be created or destroyed, just transferred or change in form, which was foreshadowing the shifting dynamic between him and Iris, because that love between them has always been there, it’s just been morphing into something bigger. That’s a love-science lesson Barry misses, because he’s still as blind about Iris’ feelings as she is about his at that point.</p><p>IV) The journey of Barry going from thinking his marriage is a placebo that was fake and only felt real, to him pinning Iris up against the placebo poster to kiss her, is an arc I’ve been excited to share with you guys for awhile.</p><p> V) I worked on this like you would not believe so if you enjoyed seeing them get togethet this chapter, I am asking you to please give ya girl a comment. ❤️ I’m also posting this on a holiday, and I normally don’t get that many kudos/comments on holidays, but I didn’t want everyone who was nice enough to comment on my last chapter to have to wait any longer, so this is for you guys. Hope you like it! ❤️</p><p>VI) I love talking to gold standard stans! Come say hi to me on: iris-west-allens.tumblr.com. I’m also so desperate for westallen content that I literally just rejoined Twitter (irisbestallen) and am looking for westallen moots so hmu.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As a scientist, Barry knows that human beings are forged from the same material that’s found in the hearts of collapsing stars, that people are made of carbon and iron, nitrogen and sulphur, shaped from stardust.</p><p>And he thinks that Iris and him must have been formed from the same burning star, that the atoms that make up the both of them were always meant to be bound as one, because they come together so easily now, it’s like their souls have always known how, like their love has spanned the universe and echoed down.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barry Allen loves Iris West-Allen.</p><p>This is just a fact Barry knows, like how Venus spins clockwise or how quantum mechanics is a theory in physics. </p><p>The sun is a star and Hubble’s Law is about cosmic expansion and he loves Iris West-Allen.</p><p>And his love for her is bound so tightly in the core of his being that it sighs on every one of his breaths and sings in each of his heartbeats, pulsing through him like symphony every time he moves his feet.</p><p>And it’s been three days since Iris and him kissed under the lamplight out in the rain, confessing and letting all the pretending be washed away, but it doesn’t feel like three days. It feels both shorter and longer somehow, like both three heartbeats and three centuries, like their dynamic is new but also incredibly familiar, like a sense of déjà vu. </p><p>(As a scientist, Barry knows that human beings are forged from the same material that’s found in the hearts of collapsing stars, that people are made of carbon and iron, nitrogen and sulphur, shaped from stardust.</p><p>And he thinks that Iris and him must have been formed from the same burning star, that the atoms that make up the both of them were always meant to be bound as one, because they come together so easily now, it’s like their souls have always known how, like their love has spanned the universe and echoed down.)</p><p>And now the early morning light is washing over them, and he’s waking up again to her tangled up with him, all soft breaths and warm skin and intertwined limbs. And he lies on his side, watching as her dark eyelashes slowly flutter open, and her eyes take him in.</p><p>And she says nothing for a second, just lies in the quiet, with a smile as soft as the dawn.</p><p>“Hi,” she says finally, voice hushed, smile widening, and she reaches out, cradling his cheek in the curve of her palm.</p><p>And she runs her thumb over the edge of his cheekbone, soft enough to make him shiver, hard enough to make him hum, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to the inner center of her wrist, her pulse beating beneath his lips.</p><p>“Hi,” Barry murmurs in reply.</p><p>And then he leans into her, dipping his head down to the curve of her neck, letting his mouth meet her pulse point there, and he enjoys the intimate rhythm of it, the way it throbs against him like physical poetry.</p><p>“We’re married,” he informs her, mouth tender against her throat. </p><p>“Mmm,” she hums. “Did you just now notice?”</p><p>“I’ve noticed every second of every minute of every day since we stood in that courtroom,” he tells her. “I just like saying it.”</p><p>(He really, really does.)</p><p>Iris traces her hand up his back to his neck, interlaces her fingers through his hair, “What time is it?”</p><p>Barry glances down at the clock, then out at the dawn.</p><p>“Too early to get up on the weekend. Go back to sleep,” he says softly. </p><p>She stretches out against him, “Are you trying to keep me in bed, Mr. Allen?”</p><p>“Like you’ve needed any persuasion, <i>Mrs.</i> West-Allen.”</p><p>Iris laughs, joyous and light and in love, and he can feel it dance in her entire body as she does.</p><p>And he drinks in the sight of her and the sound of her laughter, his fingers pressed against her stomach, enjoying her shuddering breath as he leans in and kisses her, swallowing her laugh with a grin.</p><p>And Barry has seen Iris’ smile for most of his life, has the shape of it carefully memorized in his mind, but he’s never gotten to <i>feel</i> it before, not like this, with it pressed against his own lips, and he closes his eyes, getting lost in it.</p><p>And then Iris pushes lightly against his chest, needing to take a breath, and she bends her head, letting it fall against his shoulder, and he can feel her smile there too, the wide, joyous curve of it stretching out across his skin.</p><p>“I have something for you,” she murmurs, and her hands tighten around him just for a moment before she lets go, reaching over to their nightstand drawer.</p><p>And Barry doesn’t really know what she possibly could have gotten for him, because for the first time in his life, he can’t think of anything he actually wants that he doesn’t already have, doesn’t know of anyplace he’d want to run to that isn’t where he is already, but then Iris sets an envelope in his hands.</p><p>He tilts his head curiously, tests it’s weight in his palms, “What’s this?”</p><p>“Open it.”</p><p>So he does, nudging the seal open with his thumb. But there’s no paper inside when he pulls the flap back, and he looks up at her in question for a second before he shakes the envelope...</p><p>And a men’s wedding band falls out into his hand.</p><p>(The band lies right there his palm, glinting silver in the pale morning sun.</p><p>And for once in his life, he goes speechless. He’s used to rambling, to sentences racing from his lips like shooting stars, but now he’s completely voiceless, like he can’t find or form a single word to do justice to the happiness he’s feeling.</p><p>Iris is the one person on earth who can make him like that.)</p><p>“You gave me one for keeps,” Iris explains, glancing down at her own ring. “I figured it was only fair I give you one.”</p><p>And Barry stares down at the band, slides it on, looks up and stares at her.</p><p>(Stares at her like he’s falling in love all over again in an instant, like his affection’s testing the edges of the infinite.</p><p>And he’s happy, so happy, and he can feel it taking over his body, like there’s roses blooming in his ribcage and a blue sky in his mind and the sun’s settled into his bones.)</p><p>“I love you,” he says, like it’s the only certain thing he knows.</p><p>And he surges forward, his lips finding hers, because if his mouth can’t speak properly, it can at least show her what it aches to put into words, let his kiss softly burn the translation into her. And Iris opens up to him automatically, instinctively, arms going around him as he folds into her. And he can feel the way her breathing and heartbeat rise and fall against him in living rhythm, and the way her wedding ring glides along him, the once-cold sliver now warmed by the heat of her skin.</p><p><i>They’re married</i>, he thinks. They’re married and he gets to wear this ring and wake up to next to her wearing hers every day for the rest of his life and he can’t think of a better future than that.</p><p>And Iris’ lips are on a cluster of freckles right on the edge of his cheekbone, but she must feel his face shift into a smile, because she drags her mouth down, kisses the dimple that’s deepening on his cheek like she’s already mapped it out, knowing right where it is without having to look.</p><p>Then she pulls away, just a bit, her eyes going over him, asks:</p><p>“What are you thinking that’s got you smiling like that?” </p><p>“I just realized something,” he says, brushing a strand of her hair back.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>And he tells her:</p><p>“I got to grow up with you, and now I get to grow old with you.”</p><p>She pauses, pads of her fingers stilling against his shoulder blades.</p><p>“You’re smiling about us growing old?” she asks, voice soft, curious. </p><p>“Growing old’s not bad,” he tells her. “Not if I get to do it with you.”</p><p>And it’s true, he means it. One day they’ll both be eighty with lined skin and silver hair, and he knows without a doubt he’ll still think that Iris is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And there’s all the moments in-between now and then, the moments he has faith are coming. All the big ones, like kissing his wife when she wins her first Pulitzer, and all the little ordinary ones too, the ones you don’t think about but help build a life worth living, like helping Iris move boxes into her office he knows she’ll be running her own newspaper from.</p><p>And he also knows that someday he’ll love every minute he spends cleaning up Cheerios and reading crib assembly manuals, and scaring away the monsters out from under the bed.</p><p>(And he already knows what he’ll tell his kids. That the impossible and monsters may exist, but they have no hold on them, not when their mother’s Iris West-Allen, and she’s already stood on a staircase, held out her hand, and pulled their father out of the abyss.)</p><p>Iris stares up at him, fingers curling in softly against his skin.</p><p>“You really mean that,” she asks quietly. “Don’t you?”</p><p>“Do you doubt me?” He asks, voice and hands light and teasing, because he’s just so <i>happy</i>. So, so ridiculously happy. “I’ve spent every heartbeat being in love with you, after all.”</p><p>Iris smiles, “<i>Every</i> heartbeat?” </p><p>He laughs, takes her hand, places it over his chest, where she can feel the pretty melody beneath. And he swears:</p><p>
  <i>“Every single one.”</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ❦ </p>
</div>Loving Barry Allen is like loving a force of nature.<p>Iris can’t help but think that, when it’s like the sky has gotten caught in his soul, and beautiful storms have found a home in his bones.</p><p>(He has a smile like a strike of lightning, and an electric tempest beneath his skin, windswept freckles falling over him.</p><p>And then there’s the way he loves with all the force of a hurricane, how he has the strength of thunder, but the softness of light summer rain, laying claim to her heart again and again.)</p><p>So, yes, loving Barry Allen is exactly like that.</p><p>And the best part is:</p><p>The impossible force of nature loves her back.</p><p>And she tells him so.</p><p>“That’s what you see when you look at me?” Barry whispers, his mouth moving against hers, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Lightning?”</p><p>(He can’t see it, she supposes. Can’t see how he’s like a flash of pure gold.)</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, “I really do.”</p><p>He leans back just enough to take her in, eyes searching hers as he traces the outline of her lips with his fingertips, before trailing them further down, like he’s mapping out where he’s just kissed, and he says, “I look at you, and I see where I belong.” </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“As a kid I was ripped from my bed and out of the house where I’d lived all my life in the middle of the night. Everything gone in an instant. And, at first, I thought I’d never really find home again. But I <i>did</i>.”</p><p>He stares down at her, gaze unflinchingly open and honest and loving. </p><p>“I built my home in your heartbeat,” he says, and the pads of his fingers caress down from her collarbones to her chest, staying there for a second before sliding lower. “In your bones. In the way you breathe.”</p><p>And he slips his fingertips straight down the tender center of her chest, dragging them over the length of her breastbone, gentle and purposeful and agonizingly slow, like he’s trying to show her how he lives beneath her ribs, how he exists wherever she is.</p><p>“You’re my home, Iris. You always have been,” he whispers, his hand moving down past her ribcage now, the sweet pressure of his palm sinking into her, his fingers fanning out against the expanse of her exhale. “You’re where my soul finally comes to settle.”</p><p>And <i>I love you</i> is on her lips, but he brings his body up to hers, kisses her and swallows her words. And he kisses her achingly wanting and hungry and loving, like his love for her runs so deep he could drown in it.</p><p>(He’s her best friend and he’s her <i>husband</i> and it feels so undeniably right that he has all of her heart and knows every bit of her mind and every inch of her body so intricately, intimately well.</p><p>And Iris knows that them getting married was inevitable, that him and her would always have come together, like some kind of unchanging, universal constant, their love spanning across every world. That it doesn’t matter how they got married, in a fancy wedding, or in front of a dinosaur, or in a courtroom to get college funding, with their smiles full of secrets and their stomachs full of butterflies as they’re pronounced man and wife. However it happened, she was always going to be Iris West-Allen, he was always going to be hers.)</p><p>And his kisses are open and hot and sweet with a softly burning intensity, and when he tips his head, she can feel the soft flutter of his long lashes brushing across her skin, over and over again.</p><p>And his hands are on her like it’s an honor, like her skin is artwork, and he traces the shape of her collarbones, pads of his fingers moving in delicate strokes. And his body curls in closer against hers with slow, confident ease, as if this isn’t anything new, like this is a rhythm they’re used to, like they were always made to be this way and are merely falling into place. And Iris can feel that catch and release of sweet tension followed by beautiful collapse, breath hitching and muscles tightening just for a second before she goes soft and loose-limbed under him, like he’s melting her body down to lithe liquid gold. </p><p>And there’s a sort of gentle insatiableness to his movements, like he can’t get enough of her, won’t <i>ever</i> be able to get enough of her, and he slides his hand between her shoulder blades, heel of his palm pressing into her skin as he slides it down her spine, curving her up into him inch by inch. And Iris swears that she was right, that Barry really is made up of a myriad of storms and starlight.</p><p>(It’s like his hands are trailing stars and sparks of lightning upon her skin, like the mere caress of his thumb can summon them.</p><p>And he leaves her shivering with shimmering energy, filling her lungs with electricity, and when his heartbeat pulses against her, it feels like bolts of thunder.)</p><p>“I would have married you anytime, anywhere,” he swears against her skin.</p><p>And Iris trails her fingers down his freckles, enjoying the way her touch sends a tremor through him, and she can’t help but playfully ask, “Because of the free campus housing?”</p><p>(They’re still best friends who instinctively tease. That hasn’t changed, won’t ever change. <i>Lovers</i> is only an addition, yet another label they both encompass and eclipse. They're so many things to one another in so many ways that they’ve long since passed being able to call themselves by any one definition.)</p><p>Barry laughs, quiet and warm and low in the back of his throat, and his kisses turn teasing, loving and light and lingering.</p><p>“No. Although, I <i>am</i> pretty happy we have a place to ourselves right now.”</p><p>“Mmm. The free college funding, then?”</p><p>“Not exactly.”</p><p>“The money’s nothing to scoff at, you know,” she informs him. “I once heard about a girl who got married just to get the funding.”</p><p>He buries his face in her neck, brushing her hair back with his nose, his warm exhale ghosting over the base of her throat, “Is that so?”</p><p>“Sat right down in a coffee shop and asked her best friend to marry her so she could stay in school.”</p><p>“He’d have been an idiot to refuse.”</p><p>Iris breathes out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a gasp, goes, “Wonder whatever happened to those two.”</p><p>“I have a rough idea,” he says, mouth moving over her skin, like he’s writing the words into her.</p><p>“Oh yeah? What’s that?”</p><p>“I think they’re getting what the couple in a fairy tale always get to do in the end.”	</p><p>And Barry says it like they’re in a story, the final scene in the kind of books Iris would read as a kid, the ones that had the endings she could never quite bring herself to believe. </p><p>(She remembers being seven and realizing that happily ever afters didn’t always happen when her mother left the house one day and never made it back.</p><p>And she’d had the thought again when she was eleven and held her best friend in her arms as he cried like the world had torn apart his delicate paper heart.</p><p>And yet...</p><p>The thing about being with Barry is, he tends to take things that seem impossible and make it all within reach, sweeping away all the uncertainty until she has no choice but to believe. </p><p>Maybe it’s because he’s a beautiful impossibility himself, and when he loves her, it’s with enough power to make her feel like she’s a miracle too.)</p><p>So Iris drops the act, asks:</p><p>“You really think you got a fairy tale?”</p><p>He pulls back, meets her eyes, looks at her like she’s magic and he’s mesmerized, like she’s everything in his life, making up his entire world from the sun to the sea to the sky.</p><p>And he says:</p><p>“How could I not, when I get to spend the rest of my life with you?”</p><p>(And Iris stares at him, lets his words sink in. And she’s never been so happy before that the emotion leaves her breathless, never known a softness that could cut to the bone, never loved anyone so much that it ached, ripping her heart open then filling it with gold.)</p><p>She holds him close, entwining them tighter together, softly goes, “So you think we live happily ever after, then?”</p><p>“I do,” he whispers, lips on hers, hands trailing a gentle gleam of lightning over skin. “What about you, Iris West-Allen?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, “I do.”</p><p>And she kisses him like it’s a promise.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I) This epilogue was designed to mimic wedding vows, first with his custom vow narration, then hers, presenting the rings, and ending with the two of them each saying <i>“I do,”</i> and binding it with a kiss.</p><p>The verses where Iris thinks that Barry makes anything possible, and Barry telling Iris that she’s his home were also inspired by their canon vows.</p><p>II) 6 chapters. 1 epilogue. Over 50,000 words. According to the internet, a work over 40k words can be considered a novel, so at just over 50k, I’m jokingly dubbing <i>Darling, in the End, We All Become What We Pretend to Be</i> my Westallen novel. This version of Iris and Barry have lived in my head for so long and I’ve poured so much of my time and my heart into this that it feels bittersweet that the story’s finally finished, and odd that this universe no longer needs to be in my head.</p><p>III) Like any author, I’d love to think that one day in the future, one of you will come back and reread this “novel” from start to finish. So drop me a comment if you do, yeah? I also want to thank every single one of you who have left me a comment on this, both the lovely ones who commented once, and the total angels who came back to leave me multiple ones, motivating me to keep writing.</p><p>Reading your comments on this, hearing that I actually had a writing style that people liked, and that I wrote something that made people look forward to an update, was quite literally the best part of last year, and I’m grateful to you guys. ❤️</p><p>IV) I just made a brand new Twitter last month: <b>@irisbestallen</b> and I also have a tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com) so come say hi because I need some more westallen mutuals to talk to. You can also subscribe to my Ao3 if you want to be notified when I post a new Westallen fic. </p><p>V) Really poured my heart into all 50k of this fic, so if you’ve enjoyed reading it, I’ll love you if you leave me a comment or kudos! ❤️</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I) I’ll try to post a new chapter either every week or every other week, so you can subscribe to this fic or to my account if you want to be notified for when the next chapter goes up! In the meantime, you can also find me on iris-west-allens.tumblr.com, so come say hi if you want to fangirl over the Gold Standard™️.</p><p>II) This whole “we can’t give you any more money unless you’re legally married,” schtick is actually a real thing with American colleges. I actually researched the perks (like the free apartment), and while it does vary from college to college, these grants and loopholes are very much a real thing. My first thought about finding out about it was, “That’s nuts,” quickly followed by, “Ah, yes, time for a westallen au.”</p><p>III) If you enjoyed this fic, I’d really appreciate it if you dropped me a comment or kudos for motivation while I work on the next chapter. ❤️🤗</p></blockquote></div></div>
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